


liquor (on your lips, makes you dangerous)

by eternalgoldfish



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bets & Wagers, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Bisexual Billy Hargrove, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, Gross Hot, M/M, Mean Steve Harrington, Nail Polish, Past Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Poor Life Choices, Roommates, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-01-16 17:11:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18525955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalgoldfish/pseuds/eternalgoldfish
Summary: “Careful, sweetie, don’t break a nail,” Billy said, leaning over Steve’s shoulder, lazy cat’s-grin gleaming up to his eyes.“I’m not going to break a fucking nail.” Steve hissed and elbowed him, like he hadn’t been thinking the same thing as he struggled to wedge one of his shiny red nails into his wallet’s tight leather pockets. When Carol warned him that some things would be harder, she hadn’t mentioned the bizarre anxiety that came with feeling like your hands were made of cracked dinner plates.Idly, Steve wondered if newly de-clawed cats felt like this. Except he was a re-clawed cat, and the vet had promised him it was only temporary.He was already losing his mind.Or, Steve makes a bet he can't win and Billy doesn't realize his mistake.





	1. you taste like a keg party, back on the sauce

**Author's Note:**

> I promise this was meant to be a romantic comedy.

The couch in Steve’s living room had always been pretty disgusting, if he was honest. It was the kind of lumpy that could only occur after twenty years of abuse, and Tommy had found it at a second-hand furniture store less than four months ago, which somehow made everything about it worse. It wasn’t comfortable by any means, sagged horribly in the middle, made Steve feel fucking ancient every time he pried himself out of it. He felt a little like he needed those support bars old people installed to escape their bathtubs.

So _how_ exactly he ended up with some fucking freeloader sleeping on it four days a week was a fucking mystery. It wasn’t like Billy didn’t have his own place, which had an actual mattress to sleep on. A mattress that wasn’t already beer stained in 1999.

Apparently it was _easier_ or some shit than walking to his own apartment after a night out. When Steve had convinced Tommy that they should get a place just off the main party strip, his intention was to reduce his own travel time, not enable some drunken fuck boy.

Not that Steve didn’t fit that description, but. Billy was always drunk, almost drunk, or hungover. _Always,_ it seemed, unless he was baked out of his fucking mind. He’d bang on the door at three in the morning sometimes, waking Steve up, and always refused to get an Uber. He would trip inside instead and pass out like he fucking lived there. He had a halo of clothes around the couch and routinely destroyed Steve’s supply of Tropicana, which was like, the only orange juice Steve would drink. Then Billy had the fucking gall to complain that he didn’t like pulp.

It was possibly more annoying that Billy kind of just showed up one day. Steve had a midterm paper to write, so for once in his life he wasn’t playfully pushing Tommy down the sidewalk to the nearest bar, wasn’t leaning on his shoulder or flirting with girls as he downed shots. The one fucking time he wasn’t out there reminding Tommy that they should hit up Carol, Tommy found a new drinking buddy, and he _wouldn’t fucking leave._

Sometimes Billy came over and wasn’t even fucking with Tommy. Tommy would be out with Carol or sleeping peacefully in his bed, sober as a fucking saint. Tommy didn’t even wake up when Billy leaned in the doorway and smiled at Steve, smelling like cheap vodka and some spicy cologne. If Tommy wouldn’t bitch into the next decade, Billy would be sleeping on the hallway floor. But Steve was _nice_ , so.

He emerged from his room around noon with a raging headache and moth balls in his mouth, acid in his stomach that burned like he’d been knocking back rotten tomatoes instead of shots of tequila. Billy’s pile of blankets on the couch was empty, a shirt bunched at one end like Billy had struggled it off in his sleep.

“ _I was born to flex, diamonds on my neck. I like boarding jets, I like morning sex, but nothing in this world that I like more than checks_.” A cupboard closed. “ _Money_.”

 “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , you can’t rap,” Steve said, pushing Billy against the stove to get around him in the kitchen. He opened the fridge door, scrunched his nose, closed it. “Did you seriously fucking drink my orange juice?”

Billy shrugged, picked the jug up from the counter and drank right from it, grinned as Steve snatched it out of his hands. “You know,” Billy said, “You’re really bad at this whole sharing thing.”

“It’s _my food_.” Steve grabbed the bag of bagels from the cupboard with probably more force than he needed, stuffed the bagel in the toaster and set it to medium, because _someone_ always set it to make their toast pitch black.

Bacon sizzled in the pan in front of Billy, Steve’s bacon, and there was no way he wasn’t getting some, would literally fight Billy for it. “When you start buying your own damn food I’ll start sharing,” Steve said, realized after that it made it sound like he was cool with Billy staying, which. No.

But Billy clearly got the same idea, grinned as Steve took his own glug of juice from the jug. Billy was shirtless in the jeans he probably slept in, muscles stretching as he leaned to move eggs around on the back burner. That he cooked was maybe his only redeeming quality, second to always making enough coffee for the whole house. If only he would wash his ten thousand dishes. With the jug on the other side of the counter, as far away from Billy’s reach as possible, Steve filled a mug with coffee and liberal milk, leaned his hip against the cupboard to wait for breakfast.

“Can I help you?” Billy asked.

“Dude, you’re literally in my kitchen.”

Billy let his tongue loll over his chin before licking his top teeth, looked Steve up and down from his running shorts to his loose muscle shirt. Not like he was checking Steve out, more like he was sizing him up, like he was always fucking doing. It was like he wanted Steve to squirm, and it should have worked, but. Steve couldn’t find the energy to blush or raise his hackles. Didn’t really have any energy for Billy anymore.

With a wolfish grin, Billy flexed his pecks. Maybe he walked around the apartment in no shirt with purpose, like he thought maybe Steve would be looking. It definitely wasn’t for Tommy, who basically had a ring in his sock drawer, moon eyes for Carol, had drunkenly asked Steve to be his best man months ago. Poor Billy, suffering cold nipples for nothing. It was almost sad.

“I know you love my body, but we’ve got to set some boundaries, Pretty Boy. I’m not here to be objectified. It’s misandry.”

Steve rolled his eyes and took a sip of orange juice, put the cap back on and put it in the fridge before he went back to his coffee. It was kind of a mistake, because, like, coffee and orange juice did not jive, but, fuck Billy. “Do you just like jerking off to me, or like, is there a real reason you’re here?”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, sweetie, but I’m more about pussy these days.”

Which was probably some kind of misogyny, but Steve was a business student, not some flakey women’s studies enthusiast, so what did he even know? “These days, huh? You have other days?”

Billy winked, said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Not really.” Steve leaned to look in the pan. “You’re burning my bacon, asshole.”

“I like it crispy.”

“Oh my god,” Steve said, pushing him away to rescue the pan from the burner. “Do you actually have to ruin everything? Do you have no respect for like, actual taste buds?”

 “Says the guy who steals half of everything I make.”

“It’s my fucking food.”

“Is it _really_?” Billy asked, but he didn’t stop Steve from loading a plate with eggs and bacon before taking his bagel from the toaster.

“You better wash those fucking pans.”

“Sure, _Mom_.”

With a clunk, Steve put his plate on the kitchen table, flopped into the untucked chair. “Do you talk to your mother like that?”

Half way out of the kitchen already, plate full, Billy shrugged. “Would if she wasn’t dead.”

Well, shit. That shut Steve up.

 

“Yo’, there’s bacon?” Tommy asked, coming in to the apartment an hour later. The worst nights Billy was over were the nights Tommy wasn’t, because they were usually the nights Billy was the most whiney, or the nights when he’d been there for two days, taking up the whole couch so Steve had to play Fallout from the floor like a fucking loser.

“There _was_ bacon, like, forever ago,” Steve said.

“Billy still here?”

“No, he left. Thank god.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Tommy flopped onto the couch, right in the middle of all the clothes.

Steve scrunched his nose. “How can you even sit with those there?”

“You gonna do something about it?”

“Fuck, no, I’m not some, like, maid.”

“Guess they’re staying, then.”

Why Tommy was so fucking enabling, Steve had no idea. Was Billy sucking his dick or something? Giving him free pot? Tommy used to do the things _Steve_ wanted, which made sense because they’d been friends for practically fifteen decades. They’d known Billy for like, three months. Three horrible months. And Tommy acted like the earth Billy walked on was sacred.

Not that Steve was jealous, because like, on most other things, Tommy was still willing to do his bidding, but. Billy wasn’t even that cool. He was doing a fucking major in physics with a minor in philosophy. Half the time he was sitting on the couch with a book and a pen, hungover and reading Sartre. He’d come over drunk from his own apartment, ratty paperback or textbook held under his arm as he swayed. Didn’t make any fucking sense.

Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell him to fucking take them home.”

“It’s no big deal, man. They’re just some clothes.”

Like fuck they were. “Dude, they stink. Like, literally stink. My living room shouldn’t smell like a locker room.”

“Your closet smells like a locker room. Can you even smell your gym bag?”

“Shut up,” Steve said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I want them gone.”

“Well, you’re going to have to ask him nicely,” Tommy said, picking up the PlayStation controller from the coffee table, where their gaming stuff was nestled between dirty plates and empty beer bottles. “Get on your knees, bat your eyelashes a bit.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve swiped as many bottles from the table as he could carry, said, “Fuck you.”

 

Steve left his room around midnight after two Billy-free days, felt blessed not to spot Billy on the couch in the mostly-dark. Steve let the light from his open bedroom door guide him through the living room, and was successful right until his foot caught in a tangle of fabric that dropped him face-first into the coffee table like a drunken toddler.

“Fuck!” Steve slammed his fist against the table, only making things worse by adding the pain in his hand to the pain on his face. He cupped his nose with the other hand and threw the nearest handful of clothes by him across the room.

Tommy peaked one eye out from his cracked door and scowled. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Yeah, I fucking know. Jesus Christ.” Steve threw the next handful at Tommy, was disappointed when it didn’t quite reach the door.

“I think you need to take a deep breath.”

“I think I need to burn every single fucking thing Billy owns.”

“God.” Tommy slammed his door shut, shouted from behind it, “When did you become such a dramatic bitch?”

Which, really, was the final straw. Steve couldn’t even remember what he was heading to the kitchen for, just swum behind his hot eyes and aching nose as he stomped back to his room for a laundry basket. He gathered everything up, every gross shirt and pair of jeans, way more underwear than Steve had every wanted to acknowledge, before slamming the basket down on the coffee table.

The table, which had suffered far too much abuse, groaned and wobbled. It literally cost thirty dollars from Walmart, and like. God, Steve could not wait to be a real fucking adult with things that weren’t shit.

His shoulders crawled up to his ears in the dark room. He pressed both palms against his angry eyes as he willed away the burning in his chest. Nancy had wanted a mahogany wood coffee table to match the mahogany cabinets in their kitchen, had told him a million times, but had never told him it wasn’t their house she was dreaming of, that she’d never meant that life for him—had never said she would leave him four months ago with a pout and a bad taste in his mouth.

There wasn’t anything he could do now. In the morning, he’d have to figure out what to do with the clothes. For now, he just wanted to curl back in bed, chase thoughts of someone else with warm arms around his waist and soft lips pressing into his clavicle. Thoughts of girls with golden hair and tan skin were better than an empty bed. He could only do so much with rocks in his gut.

 

Steve was only trudging down to the laundry room because it was laundry day anyway, or so he told himself as he adjusted the bag of clothes on his back and the basket in his arms as he waited for the elevator. The basement was too fucking far with extra clothes weighing down his arms, making him sweat.

It was fucking nice of him, really, to be doing Billy a favour like this. Laundry machines cost _money_ , after all, and he was already lining Billy’s stomach with fat chickens and sprouted grain bagels. The _expensive_ Whole Foods bagels, because Steve was listening to his mom for once and thought maybe he should be watching his health. Like he wasn’t twenty-one and going to live forever.

The lights in the basement were a thousand times dingier than on the other floors, casting the whole laundry room in dim yellow shadows. He sat on a stool and threw the clothes from his bag into one machine first before starting in on Billy’s hamper. Billy had better get on his fucking knees after this, honestly. Should fucking pay Steve for being such a good host, because they weren’t friends, not by a longshot, not even if Billy wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck sometimes when they were at bars and called out to the bartender that his _buddy_ needed a round of Sex On The Beach.

That was probably another reason they weren’t friends, honestly. Because once Billy had ordered, Steve actually had to drink that shit, and it, like, was _not_ a way to pull pussy. The last thing Steve was going to get with that orange garbage on his tongue was sex on the beach.

Steve threw another shirt into the washer, reached into the basket and pulled out something that crunched between his fingers. “Oh, fucking—” he gagged, dangled the jizz crusted boxerbriefs in front of him by two fingers like he might hold a dead rat he found in the bathtub. “—Why, just. Jesus fuck, why.”

He flung the pair into the washer and grabbed the next shirt, used it to wipe off his hand like that would somehow help the tingling running up his chest or the heat pooling in his groin. As if rubbing the material over his already-dry hand would get rid of the germs and the images clogging his throat. Shutting his eyes made things worse.

Billy would have been gorgeous with his head tipped back, lazy hand on his cock as he lay on the couch, sweatpants shoved down to his knees. He might have come all over his hand and stomach with a soft moan, sloppy as he grasped around on the floor for something to clean himself off with.

He’d have been breathless, filthy with his hand in the front of his jeans, all arched hips and panting, coming in someone else’s home, blissed and remorseless. Might have brought a girl in one night and spread her wide, dick stretching her as she whined soft and shook, left as soon as he’d come on her stomach and cleaned her off with his dirty clothes.

Steve was kind of disgusted, actually, felt hot and light headed as he stuffed the rest of the clothes in the machine and slammed the door shut, dick half-hard and gross in his slim joggers. Fucking traitor. Fucking _hormones._ The girl in his mind wasn’t even that hot. He’d pulled better.

 

“Hey, Pretty Boy, that my shirt you’re wearing?” Billy asked, draping himself over Steve’s back like he thought he fucking belonged or something.

Steve lifted his shoulders to shrug Billy off, didn’t think he could handle Billy’s nasty vodka-and-pepperoni breath on his cheek at ten pm on a Thursday. “You’re not the only guy on the planet to own a gray shirt, dumbass,” Steve said. He leaned his hips against the counter has he finished piling his nachos high, had his third beer sitting by his elbow as he loaded up the baking sheet.

Normally, drinking with Billy around wasn’t so bad. It dulled all his sharp edges, made Steve feel a little less like kicking him into the streets. But there was something different in the way he hovered tonight, something that made Steve feel like he was listening to nails scraping down a chalk board, over and over and over again. They weren’t the nails of a sexy porn star, either, dressed up in three-inch heels and a panty-flashing miniskirt. They were, like, gross Halloween witch nails or something, the kind of nails they’d showcase record books, so long they corkscrewed and curled, discoloured and cracked.

Steve needed to watch a little less TV. He took a sip of beer and dumped the last of the cheese on his masterpiece.

“No, but.” Billy’s finger brushed Steve’s back as it hooked into a hole in the cotton, made Steve arch away. “Pretty sure this is from when I jumped that fence on campus like, three weeks ago.”

“Pretty sure I have clothes with holes in them too,” Steve insisted. His stomach rolled. He needed the rest of his beer, and then maybe another, and then his fucking beautiful nachos. He pushed Billy back to get to the oven.

“Awe, baby,” Billy crooned. Steve debated sticking his head in along with the chips. “If you wanted to feel close to me, you just had to ask. Do you wanna borrow my basketball jersey next? Let everyone know you’re my girl?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” Steve took the beer out of Billy’s hand and finished it off, wiping the beer off his upper lip before he turned back to grab his own beer off the counter.

“Hey, I wasn’t finished with that.”

“Really?” Steve asked. “Because I’m pretty sure you were.”

“According to what?” Billy licked his teeth, seemed too mean for a guy in worn denim and a muscle top.

“All your other fucking half-assed, wild accusations.”

Billy’s face scrunched as he leaned into the fridge to get another beer. “But are they really wild accusations if they’re true?”

“Get fucked, dude.”

“That’s why I got Tinder, amigo.”

 

Every time it seemed like Billy couldn’t get any worse, he found a new way to make Steve want to bash his head in. He didn’t even need to do anything, just needed to _breathe_ in Steve’s direction sometimes.

Tommy sat on the couch with Carol under his arm and a can of some craft brew wobbling on his knee, because Carol had started to convince him that they were adults, so they needed to have _taste_ or something. Carol let her head rest on Tommy’s shoulder while she took sips from her own can, her eyes glued to the TV while Steve and Billy sat at her feet.

If Billy realized that the floor he was sitting on wasn’t covered in his week-old, come covered undies, he hadn’t made a peep, which was potentially why Steve’s shoulders were rising up to his ears as he ate his nachos off the coffee table. He felt beer-warm and riled, unable to sit still. The way Billy’s shoulder kept brushing his made him want to knock the guy over.

“So like, there’s this girl,” Billy said, crunching one of Steve’s chips. “And her pictures make her look like maybe a six, right? But literally all her pictures show her tits, and her profile says she likes _men who take control_ , so. Maybe it’s fine if I go meet her? Maybe she’s like, an eight in person, when she’s naked.”

“You’re disgusting,” Carol said, leaning around Steve for a chip.

“Did I say I was sharing?” Steve asked.

With a smile, Carol kissed his cheek. “You didn’t have to, babe.”

“You’re always such a nice guy.” Billy shoved a handful in his mouth, a stray pepper bouncing off his chin and landing on his thigh. “But like, I was saying, should I go for it? She messaged me back, like, right away, so I think she’d be down, like, right now.”

“Dear god, yes,” Steve said, ignored how his chest flushed hot from how whiney he sounded. Tried to play it off by adding, “Please fucking leave. Like. For good.”

“Shucks, sweetie, and let you miss me?” Billy asked. “No way, I’ve got a sweet deal going here.” He waved his phone back and forth, licked his teeth, eyes sharp. “Pussy whenever I want, and maid service when I get home.”

“Okay, one,” Steve said, getting up from his seat, nearly knocking his beer over as the coffee table shook. “You don’t fucking live here. Two, I am not your fucking maid.”

Titling his head, grin all teeth, Billy waved his hand in a circle and said, “What do you call all this then, Pretty Boy? You do all my dishes. Vacuum the floor.”

Steve wobbled around the table and slammed into his room, nearly tipped over as he hauled the basket of unfolded laundry out of his closet. “I wouldn’t have to, if someone didn’t leave their crusty-ass jizz soaked clothes lying around my apartment.”

“Hey, can’t help it. I’m a healthy young man.”

“Oh yeah, so fucking healthy,” Steve sneered, cheeks burning as he dumped the basket over Billy’s smug fucking mug. “You gonna fucking clean my jizz up, huh? Return the favour?”

“And why would I do that?”

Carol kicked Billy in the shoulder as Tommy laughed. “You did _what?_ Christ, Hargrove, what the fuck.”

“Because I’m not some maid!” Steve shouted. He let the basket drop, the plastic catching Billy square on the head.

“Hey!” Billy swore.

Tommy wiped beer from his lips. “Hey, hey, not in the apartment.”

“The apartment?” Steve roared, waving his hand at Billy. “More like my apartment! I don’t have to deal with this!”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Billy said. Before Steve could register the movement, Billy was smashing the empty basket into Steve’s shins. This time, Steve did knock his beer over as he fell. And like, couldn’t his coffee table get a fucking break.

“Billy!” Carol kicked Billy’s shoulder again.

“ _Carol_ ,” Billy said. “Stevie boy here shouldn’t be picking fights he can’t fucking finish.”

Steve stumbled to his feet, pointed sloppily but sharp. “I am finishing it. I’m not cleaning your fucking stuff anymore. Get out.”

“No.”

Carol sighed. “What about Tinder girl?”

“Who cares about her?” Billy asked. “I’m not leaving.”

“Tommy.” Steve jabbed his finger in his direction, waved it back at Billy.

Tommy glanced between both of them and took a long sip of his drink. Shrugged. “I’m not getting in to this.”

“Tommy.” Carol hit his chest.

It was a mistake, honestly, but Steve was committed as he grabbed Billy by the arm and tried to haul him up. A big fucking mistake, as Billy was stronger, and meaner, and a lot less drunk, so when Billy tugged back, Steve went down hard, landed on him all knobby-knees and misplaced elbows.

“Guys, come on.” Carol grabbed her drink from the coffee table before it could join Steve’s on the floor.

 Not that Steve cared anymore, hair pressed into wet carpet as Billy pinned him to the ground. “You wanna try that again, Pretty Boy?” Billy asked, close enough to bite. “How about we make a fucking deal, huh? I’ll repay you for your services. I’ll clean your place for a month.”

That sounded far too easy. Steve shook his head and tried to pry his wrists away, said, “You goddamn better.”

Billy squeezed his wrists harder. “ _If,_ you can convince Nancy and her boytoy to come over and hang out. Miss their shining faces. They’re so cute together, don’t you think?”

Steve’s stomach dropped, spilled acid into his other organs. He shouldn’t, didn’t need to do that to himself. Slurred, “Give me my phone.”

“Wait, wait,” Billy said, sitting up enough to get it off the coffee table. He stayed straddling Steve’s hips even as Steve sat, made sure to keep the phone just out of Steve’s reach. “ _But_ , if you can’t get them over.” Billy looked over Steve’s head, suddenly grinned as he caught Carol’s frown. “If you can’t get them over, you have to let Carol give you pretty nails and wear them for a month instead.”

Carol made a face. “You should really get acrylics touched up every two to three weeks.”

“That’s not the point,” Billy said.

“No,” Steve said.

“Ah, ah—” Billy clucked his tongue and pressed the phone into Steve’s chest. “You already accepted the deal. Call the princess and ask her if she wants a nightcap.”

Steve’s tongue felt cotton-heavy, beached-whale-bloated and stuck in his mouth. He wiggled a moment before realizing it was pointless. This was the bed he’d made. He scowled and grabbed the phone, pushed on Billy’s chest as the phone rang by his ear. It was useless. Billy wasn’t going anywhere.

On the fourth ring, Nancy chimed down the line. “Steve? Do you know what time it is?”

Steve cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, hi, Nance.”

Someone said something in the background. Nancy said something he couldn’t make out. “Steve, did you just drunk dial me? We both know that’s a bad idea. Drink some water. Go to bed.”

“Hey, woah, I didn’t—” Steve said, but his mouth lolled over the ‘woah’ like a boat on a high wave, sounded drunk even to himself. “I’m not drunk. But we are drinking? At the apartment? We thought you might want to come by for a bit. Maybe bring Jonathan? It’s a party.”

For a long moment there was nothing, not even phone static. Then Nancy said, soft. “We can’t right now. I think you need to go to bed. Tommy is there, right? Can I talk to Tommy?”

Steve scrunched up his nose, told himself the pressure building behind his eyes had nothing to do with the tightness of his chest. “No, you can’t. What the fuck?”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Nancy—” But the call was closing with a beep, gone.

At some point, Steve had curled his hand into the front of Billy’s shirt, had it gripped bone-white between blotchy red fingers. “Well, Stevie,” Billy said, prying his hand away. “Guess you got an appointment at Ruby’s Nails tomorrow.”

Carol rubbed her face. “I’ll see if I’ve got time in the books.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, here we go again!  
> Thank you so much for reading. As always, feedback is loved and appreciated.  
> Special big love to uncaringerinn for making this happen.
> 
> Hit me up on Tumblr @eternalgoldfish if you want to chat. I'm very friendly!
> 
> The titles come from "You Can Be The Boss" by Lana Del Rey.


	2. you taste like the fourth of july (malt liquor on my lips, my, my)

“I’m done with Shirley’s bullshit, honestly,” Carol said, adjusting her hold on Steve’s hand to bind the next nail tip to his finger. There were only three other women working in the nail salon, nine in the morning a little early for most of their daytime appointments. The one at the front desk with blonde hair and a dragon tattoo, with some name starting with an _M_ , kept shooting him scrunched-nosed glances, her glasses pressing against her eyebrows.

Steve watched Carol fiddle with her nail clippers. The plastic tips she’d attached to him were alarmingly long, and part of him was concerned was concerned that she’d leave him looking like Bhad Bhabie, with nails as long as his fingers. He asked, “Shirley’s the one who keeps flirting with Tommy, right?”

“Ugh, no, that’s Lacey,” Carol said. She took Steve’s pinkie and clipped a good half-inch off the tip. Thank fuck. “Shirley is the one who keeps dipping out early when she’s got more clients on the books. Which is stupid, because she’s literally losing so much money by not taking those clients. I don’t mind the extra money, but it’s annoying, you know? And it’s making some of my days into, like, ten hour days.”

The woman with pink hair in the back of the salon cleared her throat. Steve glanced her way and rolled his shoulders. “Should you really be saying this here?”

Carol sighed. “They’re annoyed too. And honestly, if they’re not, they can go fuck themselves. I’m sick of picking up all the slack around here. I’ve been thinking about finding a different salon, but it’s hard to find one when most of the places around here only hire friends and family.”

She finished clipping and got a nail file out of a package. It felt like she was going to break the nails right off as she roughly worked at them, a thought that made Steve’s stomach twist in ways he didn’t understand. “I get that?” He bit his lip. “What colour are these going to be?”

“Billy wants red.” Carol smiled, tight. “I told him it wasn’t really his choice, but.”

“But you’re doing red.”

“He whined that he’d made the deal and wanted them to be _noticeable_ , like people weren’t going to notice if I made them look natural. I wonder if he thinks that natural make-up is what girls look like without make-up. Like, if he thinks I just wake up contoured and with eyeliner.”

Yeah, Steve wasn’t touching that one. “You’re still putting them on me. You didn’t actually _have_ to do this.”

“Neither did you.” She pulled a pot of some white powder from a drawer and got out a weird paintbrush, smiled sly. “But here we are.”

Steve sighed and looked at the ceiling. “It was a bet. I lost.”

“Yeah, and you could have told him to fuck off.”

“Pretty sure I did.”

“Pretty sure you just rolled over and did it.”

“Oh my god,” Steve said, rubbing his face. “Can everyone just shut up about it, please.”

“Well, if you’re going to be like that,” Carol said as she started to apply her mystery paste to his nails. “Maybe your index fingers could use some gemstones.”

“For the love of god, no.”

 

Time was meaningless once other clients started coming in. Blondie had messed with the TV above Carol’s head at some point, _John Tucker Must Die_ and the whirring of electric files bleeding Steve’s brain. “Go wash your hands,” Carol said. “No soap. Please don’t use soap.”

Steve stood at the basin and flexed his fingers, cringed at how alien they looked. He’d always had long, thin hands, but they definitely weren’t feminine, definitely made his shoulders rise to his ears as he took in the claws Carol had made. Even without polish, they looked prom-queen manicured.

 _Steve Harrington Must Die_.

He dried his hands and ran one through his hair, shivered at the scratch against his scalp, felt like the moment couldn’t be worse, couldn’t make him feel less inside his skin. Then he turned and glanced out the window, and apparently he was wrong, apparently it could be worse, because there Billy was on the other side of the glass, tongue lolling over his ice cream and lips quirked in one corner. Even if it was winter, it was still warm enough in California for Billy’s shirt to be unbuttoned to his navel. He was such a tool.

“Looks like we’ve got an audience,” Steve said, taking his seat.

Carol waved at Tommy in the window. “Thank god Lacey isn’t working today.”

“Yeah, Tommy’s ego doesn’t need that,” Steve said, letting his eyes stray back to the screen.

“More like I don’t want to get fired for throwing hands. Bitch needs to back off.”

Steve grinned, said, “You got me in your corner, if you need. I’ll hold your shit or whatever.”

“Steve Harrington, are you telling me you watch mid-2000s chick flicks?”

The screen above Carol’s head was covered with John Tucker’s bare ass, lacey red thong revealing far too much for Steve’s tastes. “This kind of garbage? Definitely not. It’s a meme.”

“Um, excuse me, this is a classic,” Carol said.

At the next table, Blondie looked up from her client to sneer, “This is why guys don’t normally come in here.”

Which, wow, was far too hostile, Jesus Christ. Something clenched in Steve’s stomach, a sort of vague awareness that he’d thought of, but he hadn’t really _thought of_ in the kind of technicolour he needed. This was meant to be humiliating, a kind of torture right on brand for Billy fucking Hargrove, but. Steve had classes to go to. People to watch him.

“Holy shit, Maddison,” Carol said. “We live in LA. Grow the fuck up.”

Steve glanced at Billy out the window, didn’t really feel better as he cleared his throat. Billy was talking with someone just outside the view of the glass, lips coiled serpent-sharp as he snapped at whoever it was. Tommy didn’t look too thrilled either, one arm crossed as he held his ice cream cone to his mouth to catch the sticky mess dribbling down over his fingers.

“Don’t listen to her,” Carol was saying, but Steve was already tuned out to everything inside the salon, eyes instead sticking to Nancy as she pushed around Billy, mouth set into a harsh line as her ponytail bobbed. She shoved the front door open hard enough that the bells hit the wall before smacking back against the door.

Pinkie stood up from the front desk and asked, “That guy giving you trouble?”

With a sigh, Nancy hiked her purse higher. “No, just some douchebag friend of my ex.”

“I think friend is a generous word,” Steve said.

Whatever the fight outside had been about, it clearly wasn’t Steve, because Nancy’s eyes darted up, dinner-plate wide, shocked to see Carol filling in Steve’s nails with ruby red. “What are you doing?”

Steve wiggled his free hand. “Manicure? I was wondering if they’d do that thing with the feet, too, but apparently that costs more.”

“Yeah, and there’s no fucking way I’m touching your feet. Put those into the light under the counter and give me your other hand.” Carol gestured until Steve obeyed.

Hands on hips, Nancy rolled her eyes. “ _Steve_.”

“What?” He licked his lips. “This is your fault. You didn’t come over last night. I lost the bet.”

Nancy’s jaw dropped. “ _Steve_.”

“I already told him this is stupid,” Carol said. Traitor. “But he’s a boy, so.”

 

Steve couldn’t be more glad to be out in the fresh air. As much as he’d complained about price, Carol had taken pity and not charged him, instead saying something about how his nail fills wouldn’t be free, whatever _that_ meant.

“Well would you look at that,” Billy whistled. “Pretty like a princess.”

Scowling, Steve grabbed the cigarette dangling between Billy’s fingers, took a long drag before saying, “Get fucked.”

“Gonna get hot pink next time?” Tommy jeered.

“Maybe, if it gets bitches on my dick.”

Billy pushed away from the wall and rolled his shoulders. “Didn’t know you were a lesbian.” But there was something in Billy’s eyes that Steve couldn’t read, a sort of restlessness that moved down through Billy’s shoulders.

Steve took another drag and stared at how his fingers held the cigarette, how the red sheen caught in the sun. Whatever.

 

How women lived with shit stuck to their hands was a fucking mystery. On the way home, Steve had pulled Tommy and Billy into the convenience store down the road. He’d needed Cheetos, and smokes, and a case of LaCriox—because like hell was he touching beer for at _least_ another two weeks. It was meant to be a simple operation, in and out, grab the snacks, grab the drinks, smile pretty at the grouchy, rude cashier who _probably_ had a crush on him, and pay before the guy threatened to kick him out for loitering.

The guy just didn’t get it. Steve wasn’t loitering if he was a _paying customer_. But, well. That’s where he was in a pickle, because Cashier Guy had drawled, “Gonna need some ID.” And Steve had fucking fumbled his card so deep into his wallet that it’d disappeared.

Cashier Guy’s eyebrows were in his hair, arms crossed tightly over his chest, patience unravelling nearly as quickly as Steve’s.

“I’ve almost got it—” Steve promised. “Fucking, _fuck_.” 

“Careful, sweetie, don’t break a nail,” Billy said, leaning over Steve’s shoulder, lazy cat’s-grin gleaming up to his eyes.

“I’m not going to break a fucking nail.” Steve hissed and elbowed him, like he hadn’t been thinking the same thing as he struggled to wedge one of his shiny red nails into his wallet’s tight leather pockets. When Carol warned him that some things would be harder, she hadn’t mentioned the bizarre anxiety that came with feeling like your hands were made of cracked dinner plates.

Idly, Steve wondered if newly de-clawed cats felt like this. Except he was a re-clawed cat, and the vet had promised him it was only temporary.

He was already losing his mind.

“If you don’t have ID—” Cashier Guy said.

“You know I have ID,” Steve said, waving his wallet. “I’m in here, like, every other day. I’m a regular. We’re like, practically buddies.”

“Oh, we’re buddies?” Cashier Guy squeezed the rubber frog that always sat by the register, made its eyes go _pop_ as Steve scrabbled at his cards. “What’s my name, then?”

Fuck. “Josh?” Steve asked, nail catching in one of the folds and nearly sending his wallet to the floor. “Come _on._ ”

The frog’s eyes popped. “Wrong. Get out already, I have paying customers.”

Which, the shop was completely empty, so. Rude.

“C’mere, Pretty Boy,” Billy cooed, reaching around Steve to snatch the wallet from his hands. He slipped the ID out easy and flopped it on the counter. “Give the princess a rest, Carter, she’s had a long day.”

“Get fucked,” Steve grumbled.

Tommy, fucking bastard, was rolling with laughter. He could also get fucked.

Billy took the ID back and threw the right bills on the counter, before slipping the wallet into the back of Steve’s jeans. It was like spiders had crawled up Steve’s spine, shook each vertebra loose between his ass and his ears. He planted a hand in the center of Billy’s chest to push him away.

With his hands on his hips, licking his teeth, Billy said, “That’s no way to say thank you.” But his eyes were straying down, got hung up where Steve was pressing his necklace into his bare chest.

Steve shoved again and grabbed his bags. “You’re right, it’s not.”

 

When Steve had said he wasn’t touching beer again for another week, he hadn’t been lying. He’d never said anything about not touching _wine._ He leaned back on the couch and drank whatever fruity white Carol had tucked into the back of the fridge last time she was over. It wasn’t bad. Steve preferred something a little more bitter, something with a bit of bite, but he was never one to pass up free alcohol, and with Billy sitting at his elbow, laughing obnoxiously at _Survivor,_ booze was a need and not a want.

“They’re definitely voting that dumb bitch off, oh my god,” Billy said.

“Hey, shut up,” Steve elbowed him. “Did you _see_ what the that fucking snake just did? They know he doesn’t actually have an immunity idol. At least three of them think he’s bluffing. Which he is. So, there’s not fucking way they’re voting her off when he’s basically trying to blow them up from the inside.”

“But it’s about the game, Stevie.” Billy took a long pull from Tommy’s _Mr._  mug, the one that matched Carol’s _Mrs._ in the cupboard. Nancy thought it was a funny gift. She wasn’t wrong, but. Billy licked the wine off his upper lip. “She’s a weak link. He’s better at challenges. They’ll need him if they want to stay in.”

“Or he’ll screw them all over and push them all out before they make it to the Final Five,” Steve said.

Billy waved his hand. “They’re not that smart, alright? They all talk a big game, but you don’t go on a show like _Survivor_ because you’re a genius, you know? There’s nothing actually enriching about, like, sitting in mud and mosquitos for months, squinting at each other over poorly cooked rice and chicken. Yeah, you can win money, but. You could also _not_ do that.”

“You watch this show literally every week.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t _like_ it. I’m just saying. In the short term, he looks like the better person to keep on the island.”

Steve rolled his eyes, tried to keep himself from oozing into the space between them on the couch. He was warm, bubbly like the wine, even as he elbowed Billy again and said, “Every single Tribal Council so far this season has been a complete blindside. Who even fucking knows who they’ll vote off. They’re all making triple crossed alliances. But I’d definitely vote that shithead off. He’s just got this face.”

“So now it’s about his face?” Billy sagged against Steve’s arm like he sagged into Steve’s couch—like it was part of him, like he belonged, and Steve was struck with the sudden, inexplicable urge to shove him over.

“If he was cute, he might be able to get away with it, alright? But that guy looks like he got hit by a shovel.”

Billy tutted. “So shallow, Pretty Boy. You saying you’d give cute guys a little more rope?”

The question was simple, but it loosened something at the back of Steve’s throat, something coated syrupy-sick in sweet wine. “Not when they’re assholes. Christ, like. They could be Chris Evans and I’d tell them to fuck off.”

Billy laughed. “Really? Of All the guys you pick to be your _no-homo-but—_ you pick Chris Evans?”

Steve scrunched his nose, bumped his shoulder into Billy a little hard, absently tapped his nails against the side of his glass. He’d actually gotten one out of the cupboard, like some kind of fucking adult. “Hey, man is objectively jacked. And those all-American eyes? Who wouldn’t?”

“Like, lots of people,” Billy made his own face. “I mean like, I wouldn’t say _no_ , if it was on the table, but I also wouldn’t _ask_ for it.”

And there it was again, those easy words, the slip in Steve’s gut that rested on Billy’s maybes. Billy’s _I’m more about pussy these days,_ what they meant. Not that Steve cared, but. Well. The guy slept on his couch. Would have been nice to know, if they were friends, and all that. Not that Steve thought it was like, his right, but.

Steve took a sip of his wine. “Good thing I already knew you had shitty taste, or I might be devastated.”

“Says the guy who wants to fuck Chris Evans.”

“Dude, I didn’t fucking say that.” Steve tapped at his glass. “Just that I don’t let a pretty face push me around, alright? I got like, backbone and shit.”

Billy raised his eyebrows high, took a long drink from his glass and looked at the TV. Pointedly kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “You say that, but like. I’ve actually met Nancy Wheeler, you know.”

Which, wow. Steve grit his teeth, tried to drink his wine like that didn’t cut. “Fuck you. I never let her push me around.”

“You literally did. She was literally practically cheating on you.”

“Says who?”

“Says Tommy.”

Steve tapped his nails harder, shoulders raised, said, “Yeah, but Tommy is a shithead. He doesn’t fucking know anything. I don’t think he even knows about dating? He’s been with Carol for like, a decade.”

Billy scrunched his nose into his mug. “Don’t say it like that. I think about them boning as like, _children_ , and it’s just. Seventeen levels of nasty.”

“Oh my god.” Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Regardless of what Tommy brags, Carol didn’t put out until they were like, sixteen, everyone needs to get over it.”

With an exaggerated shudder, Billy took a long pull of his drink.

“Oh, come on,” Steve said. “Like you didn’t have a parade of girls or some shit. Or are you all talk, too?”

“Nah,” Billy said. “But my dick is different.”

Whatever that meant. “I’m just saying,” Billy went on. “You have to stop letting chicks tell you what to do. Especially that chick. She’s getting fucked by someone else, alright? You should be too.”

“One,” Steve gripped his glass tighter, pointedly kept his eyes forward as his nails tapped. “I _have_ been. Two, that is fucking rude as shit, you dickbag.”

“I’m just saying, and this is serious, coming from me, you need some long-term pussy or something, alright? None of this.” He waved his hand in Steve’s general direction.

It was hard for Steve not to grind his jaw, not to rise like he wanted, clock Billy in his smug fucking mug. “Can you be decent for one second? Like, holy fuck, get out of my apartment.”

Billy didn’t move a muscle. Instead, he said. “Holy fucking shit, can you stop clicking your nails like that? I’m actually going to murder you.”

Because Steve never learned shit, clearly had never in his entire fucking life, from his dating history, he twisted in his seat and shoved Billy. “Not if I don’t murder you first. Seriously. _Seriously_ , this time. Get the fuck out, dude.”

The heat in his cheeks wasn’t a warning sign for tears. He promised himself it wasn’t as he got up and pointed at the door. Part of him was fucking glad for modern TV, because the one silver lining was that he wasn’t going to miss Tribal Council, would fucking need it once Billy was out in the cold.

Slowly, too slow, Billy set his glass down and stood up, stepped around the coffee table instead of heading to the door. He stood eye to eye with Steve, sneered. “I’m giving you solid fucking advice, man. She’s a fucking cunt, alright?”

Steve laughed. “You’re so out of line, holy shit.”

Billy jabbed him in the shoulder with his index finger. “Someone has to say it.”

“No.” Steve grabbed his wrist. He dug his nails into Billy’s pulse like he wanted to cut into his veins, said, “No, no one has to say it. You don’t get to say it. You’re not my friend. You weren’t there when it all went down. You’re not in my fucking head.”

But Billy wasn’t meeting Steve’s eyes anymore. Instead, they were glued to Steve’s hand around his wrist, his fist clenched bone-white as his breath caught and his shoulders rose. For a split second, Steve thought maybe he finally had an upper hand. He had Billy Hargrove scared.

“Fine, alright? I’ll go.” But Billy’s voice wasn’t shaking. It was husky, low, cracked with hunger as he lolled his tongue over his chin. It was a bad habit, gave him away every time.

Steve wanted to crawl out of his skin. He dug his nail into Billy’s wrist harder, before throwing it away. “Good. Now.”

As he settled back on the couch and rewound the episode, he couldn’t help tap his nails against his wine glass. By the time he finished the bottle, he realized he couldn’t remember how the Tribal Council went down, if alliances were broken, if there was an upset of any kind. He just knew that one less woman would be headed to the Final Five, and fuck, that stung.

 

The thing was, when Steve told Billy to go, he had kind of meant permanently. With the way Billy had looked at him, like maybe Billy had been thinking permanently too, Steve really hadn’t been expecting him to come back the next day, let alone within the next four hours. Yet, around one in the morning, when Steve was trying to imagine lying on the beach with bikini models, willing himself to sleep, he heard a rough thump against the front door, followed by Tommy’s grumbling as he finally got the keys into the lock and got the door open.

Billy replied to him in stage-whispers, clearly too drunk to keep the volume down. Steve didn’t need to see to know, even half-asleep and hazy. He was too tired to go out there and tell Billy to fuck off again, or so he told himself as he rolled over and tucked his pillow over his head. It was too much energy. Maybe in the morning, he’d find a good reason to send Billy packing, but Steve was too heavy, too warm.

 

It didn’t go that well. Steve rolled around for the better part of half an hour, Bikini Girl one morphing into Nancy, into Bikini Girl two. Billy’s words swirled in his head. It was just fucking absurd, felt like that surrealist acid-trip bullshit people passed off as artsy cinema. The longer Steve tried to sleep, the more he felt the distance between himself and his grungy living room couch grow taut and close, like the elastic bands on braces he’d had at the age of thirteen, pulling all his teeth together.

He couldn’t do it. It was impossible. He threw his covers off and intended to push Billy out the front door. It’s what he should have done, but. When he eased his bedroom door open, silent without every having really closed it, the words caught under his Adam’s apple, dried out his tongue.

Billy was on his back, curls tumbling over the armrest of couch as he grit his teeth and tipped his head back. Even in the dark, streetlamp light from the open curtains the only thing guiding Steve’s eyes, he could make out the way Billy’s arm tensed, how he adjusted his hips and worked his hand lazily over his exposed cock.

Billy was thick, sturdy like his frame, gorgeous as his breath hitched. He clutched at his own hair, pulling like maybe he was into it, moaned soft at the fingers digging in to his scalp.

Turning around was Steve’s best option. Really, it was the only right option. Yet, he was hot and too-sober, felt wrapped in flaming tongues as he hardened in his sweatpants. Billy kept teasing himself, working fast than easing off, letting his hips rock then reminding them of their place.

Steve was suddenly struck with the wildest impulse to touch. It would be so easy to cross the room, take Billy on his tongue. Steve never _had_ , with a guy, but. His chest ached, too tight, thighs wanting. It would be so easy to take Billy in his hand and rub his thumb over Billy’s tip, to kiss him as he whined and squirmed. Maybe Billy would call him _baby_. Maybe Billy would beg.

It was stupid, impossible. Steve adjusted himself in his sweats. He needed to turn around and talk himself down. This was _Billy_ , the same Billy who sneered in his face, ate his food, thought he was a weak bitch. The same Billy he wanted to murder.

Billy practically keened, voice just muffled as he bit his tongue, and Steve muffled a moan. His hand hadn’t left his sweats like he’d planned. Instead, he realized he was rubbing himself, squeezing his cock like he imagined Billy’s, working himself up until he could feel his tip leak and drag across cotton.

“Fuck,” Billy hushed.

Steve was slipping his hand into his pants. It wasn’t his choice. He leaned against the wall, just inside the frame of the door, and moved his hand fast, let Billy’s breathing guide him. Billy would be so willing in his hands, so needy. He’d let Steve work him over until he was a sloppy mess.

Not that Steve would be any less willing. He’d let Billy breathe down his neck as he jerked him slowly from behind, hot mouth coaxing him closer with every huff and bite. Billy could press his dick between Steve’s ass cheeks, tease him with the idea of something hotter, closer, like Steve would let his dick glide through some chick’s slick pussy, make her wet with it, wild.

It should have been uncomfortable, thinking of himself like that, but it didn’t. It just made him more flush with all the feeling, thoughtless aside from the newness, his sudden aches. Billy would be so different.

He almost missed Billy come, only caught it from the way he whined, tone suddenly harsh. That did it, pushed Steve over a moment later as he thought of Billy’s open mouth, a hair stuck in the corner, slick with spit, spent.

After a moment, Steve eased the door shut and stripped his pants, before using them to clean his hands.

Claiming it was a low point probably wasn’t going to cut it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Steve isn't a creep? Mostly?  
> My sister also told me that my depiction of _Survivor_ is wrong, but like. I tried, okay?  
> Extra big love to uncaringernn for being number one bae and reading this over.  
> Do people still say bae? You're all bae, either way.  
> Thank you for reading!  
> Comments are always appreciated. Have a great evening!


	3. bad to the bone and sick as a dog

If Steve used to think that taking notes in class was horrible, he clearly hadn’t thought through all his possibilities. In his last lecture, taking notes had been a fucking breeze. Today it was like every single key on his laptop was determined to trip his fingers up, nails getting stuck under the plastic and clacking uselessly as they snagged and hit the wrong letters.

It was the first lecture he’d gone to in three days, having had the nails for six, and honestly, his typing speed wasn’t great for morale. He didn’t roll out of bed for this shit.

Steve never claimed to be a great student, alright? Or even a good student, really. His parents had been equal parts shocked and thrilled when he said he was going to college. The way his mother had kissed his cheeks had signaled to him just how much she expected him to become some deadbeat, couch-potato dog-walker.

Not that there was anything wrong with professional dog walkers. Steve had mad respect for those people. But Mama Harrington didn’t raise no hired-help.

His mom was kind of like wine. No one liked her the first time they were tricked into thinking she was grape juice, but she had a way of growing on people with age. Or so Steve told himself as he hit the _e_ key with particular violence. He’d bumped the _r_ and then the _4_ about six times.

Alright, so maybe not everyone’s parents encouraged alcoholism at the age of twelve. Steve had turned out fine. He had all his fingers and his toes still, could count most of the way to a hundred without getting lost. Oh, and apparently he was bi, but he didn’t think that was related.

As he sat in class, he realized that he should probably be a little more concerned with that revelation. Wasn’t grappling with sexuality supposed to be one of those big, life altering things? Steve thought he should at least be feeling a little surprise, or Catholic guilt, or something. Maybe it was because his family stopped going to church when he was five, but he just felt sort of like he should have known earlier.

Acceptance felt too easy, but, well. He’d gotten off at the idea of Billy fucking his thighs, and he didn’t even _like_ Billy. He’d debated whether or not it was a fluke for about as much time as it had taken him to shower the next morning, and that shower had taken about as long as it had taken him to jerk off again. Not a fluke, so.

The professor cleared her throat. Steve’s head snapped up. He didn’t know when he’d stopped typing all together, eyes stuck on his fingers sprawled flat over his keys.

The professor loomed over some chick sitting in the front row and clucked her tongue. “Minecraft isn’t going to be on my exam, Jessica,” she said.

Billy’s dick probably wasn’t going to be on it either. Steve ran a hand through his hair. Maybe he should start recording lectures.

 

The place was packed, Thirsty Thursday bringing in all the students who didn’t have classes on Friday, and even more students who did. Steve leaned against the bar with a five out and winked at the bartender. He’d gotten fucking smart about his payment situation. He had his change and cards loose in his pockets, instead of fighting with his wallet.

Initially, the bartender had blinked at him holding his money up, but that was three drinks ago, and Steve was getting used to the double takes. He’d thought that more people would keep their eyes to themselves, since guys with makeup were, like, becoming a thing he thought was more common, but. People would always be people, he guessed. Besides, he didn’t think he looked the type, if there even was a type.

“Can I get another Corona?” He called over the music and laughter.

She smiled and grabbed a glass from the counter, kept her eyes on him as she stood at the tap to fill it. “Where’s that guy that’s normally with you? Sex-on-the-beach-guy?” she asked.

He’d never asked for her name, but she almost always seemed to be working when he came in. She was pretty, had blonde shoulder-length hair and blue eyes. She always wore her required kilt a little too high. Maybe he should have asked her name at some point, but it was too late, and Steve thought it might be kind of awkward to make too nice with her. Don’t shit where you eat, and all that.

“What, Billy? I don’t know, he’s around here somewhere. You haven’t seen him?”

“Nah, I wonder if Jason keeps grabbing him before I notice,” She said. She slid his drink across the bar and took the cash from his hand, letting their fingers linger together longer than usual.

“Thanks,” He said, foam on his top lip as he took a swig. “You’re looking good tonight, by the way. I tell you that yet?”

She smiled, devious, said, “No, but you’re welcome to tell me again any time.”

“Just might,” he said, but turned his back a second later. He wanted to drink, wanted to play, and he’d seen a girl in a booth on the other side of the room who kept trying to catch his eye.

He didn’t think he was imagining it. For all Billy’s bullshit, Steve had _game_ , alright? He could pull anyone he wanted.

“Hey, is this seat taken?” he asked, spreading an arm over the high wooden backing of the chair and leaning his hip against it.

She looked up from her phone and smiled, tongue playing with her straw a second. “Only if you take it.”

He slid in easy, smile winning a he tapped his nails against his glass. “I’m Steve. Have I seen you here before?”

“Nah, My usual bar is undergoing like, maintenance or something tonight, so we came here instead. I’m Becky.”

“Where are your friends?”

She shrugged. “They all went to the bathroom. Left me to watch the drinks. What about you? Your boyfriend or something around?”

Steve blinked, mouth caught half open. Something in his gut rolled, cheeks growing hot. He choked around his words, tongue tripping as he spat them out. “What? No, I’m not—I don’t have a boyfriend? Why would you think I had a boyfriend?”

“Oh, sorry, just.” She wiggled her fingers in the air. “I just assumed? I mean, I was hoping I was wrong, but. It’s kind of a growing thing in that community, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know?” He said, maybe too fast. “Not that I have anything against that community, or anything, it’s just really not my thing? I’m not. You know. That.”

“Gay?”

“Uh.” He cleared his throat, didn’t think this was the time for his first plunge into coming out. She was hot, soft red hair shifting over her tight, low-cut black shirt, and his plan had been to score. Some girls got weird about bi guys, he was pretty sure. It wasn’t really something he’d wanted to think about yet. “Yeah, I mean. These nails aren’t really a fashion choice? I just did something stupid.”

“Drunk choice? I didn’t think salons were open that late. You into brunch mimosas?”

“No,” he laughed, although he was starting to think he should take them up. Might improve his overall sanity. “I lost a bet with my buddy. He’s kind of a dick about, like. Literally everything.”

“That’s some bet.” She put a hand out like she was asking for something, so he set his hand in her upturned palm and leaned forward as she inspected.

“I like them,” She said. “It’s a nice colour. They look really professional.”

“My best friend is a nail girl. I think she might be offended if she heard that.”

“Oh, sorry,” she said, but she didn’t let go of his hand. “This seems like a lot for a bet, though. Kind of expensive. How long do you have to have them on for?”

“A month. It’s hell.”

Becky smiled and laced her hand with Steve’s, bending their wrists enough to show off her bright blue nails. Her index finger was a sharp silver that reflected light in a way he didn’t think was possible. Briefly, he wondered if Carol had been holding out on him. “You get used to it,” she said.

“Yeah, that’s what Carol said,” he gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m pretty sure that was a fucking lie.”

“Nah. There’s lots of things you figure out you can do. You just got to be careful, is all.”

“This is the first day I’ve worn jeans. I couldn’t get the button done.”

She laughed, smiled sly. “I mean. Wearing pants is kind of overrated, don’t you think?”

He leaned his elbow on the table, liked the curve of her cupid’s bow, wondered how it would taste. “I’m pretty sure society prefers I keep them on.”

“Eh. I’ve gotten pretty good at buttons. These jeans have three.”

“I could never.”

She rocked their hands back and forth. “I wouldn’t make this offer to just anyone, but you look kind of pathetic, stuck in those tight pants. I could help you take them off.”

“What’s this?” Billy asked, pushing into the booth, forcing Steve to shuffle to the side. “Arm wrestling contest, without me?”

Heat rushed Steve like snaps of electricity, fizzled his veins. “Fuck off, dude.”

“What?” Billy held out his hand to Becky, bedroom eyes betrayed by his sharp grin. “You don’t want me to meet your friends? I’m Billy.”

“Becky,” she said, dropping Steve’s hand to give Billy’s a shake. It lasted way too long, bile in Steve’s throat as he watched Billy’s thumb run over the back of Becky’s hand.

“Are you the guy he made that bet with? It’s kind of genius.”

“Oh, no, no.” Billy waved her off, took a sip of his beer. “There was no bet, he’s just shy about the things he likes.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Steve said, shoving his shoulder. “Seriously.”

Becky laughed, eyed Steve up and down. “There are weirder kinks. I think it’s kind of hot.”

“I swear, that’s really not what—”

Billy squeezed the back of Steve’s neck. “Don’t gotta be shy, Pretty Boy. The world is growing more open. You don’t have to hide.”

“Billy. Can I have a word?”

“Sure.”

Steve pushed on his arm. “Get out. Sorry, Becky. We’ll be right back. We can dance, after?”

“I’ll be waiting.” She smiled, toyed her straw with her tongue before taking a long sip.

Christ. Fuck. Steve stumbled out of the booth after Billy, heat pooling between his legs at the very thought of what she meant. He wondered what her neck would look like, strained back as he mouthed between her thighs. She clearly had great breasts.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He asked, shoving Billy into the bathroom and locking the door. One of the things he liked about this bar was the single bathrooms. He didn’t know if they were intentionally covered with all kinds of stickers, or if people had started tagging the inside of the washroom and the owner had just let people keep going, but it gave the place texture and entertainment when Steve needed something to read when he shit. It definitely gave him something to look at other than Billy’s smug mouth. If he looked at that mouth too long, Billy might lose some teeth.

“No problem,” Billy said, leaning against the wall. “Gotta say, it’s normally girls dragging me in here.”

“Oh, fuck you, you know exactly what you’re doing. You’re literally wrecking your advice from the other day.”

“I’m pretty sure I said you need a girlfriend, not a one-night-stand. That’s kind of my deal, anyway.”

“Why does that fucking matter to you? If I want to get my dick wet, fucking let me.”

“Because then I still have to listen to you whine about _she didn’t stay over again_ , and _nancy’s not answering my texts,_ like a fucking bitch, or something.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”

Steve had had it, was practically roaring, felt unhinged and shaky as he shoved Billy into the wall by his shoulders. He dug his nails into the fabric, was pretty sure if he tried hard enough, he could welt, get blood on that white cotton.

So yeah, he was pretty blindsided when Billy took a sharp breath and grabbed his arms, had a heat in his eyes that wasn’t angry, but something more molten, something more surprised. Billy smelled like beer and whiskey, cheap French fries and some chick’s perfume. He had lipstick smeared by his ear and the tips of his hair on one side looked crunchy, like maybe he’d leaned over and gotten it in his drink.

Steve was wrong. Billy breathed against his mouth, and that was definitely fried pickles, not fries. “You’re going to kill me,” Billy said, like that fucking meant anything.

“Yeah, I fucking might.” Steve sneered. He grabbed Billy’s cheek with one hand, wanted to see his eyes. “Get over your deathwish, buddy. It’s not fucking cute.”

Before Steve could really process the movement, his back was hitting the wall, head bumping into the stickered brick. When he tried to pull his head forward, a tacky spot tugged on his hair. “What the fuck—”

“You can never just keep your hands to yourself.”

“What is your problem? Do you get off on this or something? Like, Christ—”

Billy shoved Steve’s hips against the wall, hands vice-tight over his jeans. His lips were slightly chapped, hot and demanding as they bit Steve’s bottom lip. He didn’t kiss kind. He kissed like Steve was tugging on his hair, scraping his sharp-tipped nails against his scalp. The plan had been to pull him away, but Steve was finding that harder by the second, coaxed forward by Corona and the thought of Billy’s curls over the back of the couch armrest, dick plump and flush, lips full.

Steve wanted. He couldn’t rationalize it, but as Billy was licking his way into Steve’s mouth, pressing a thigh between his legs, Steve couldn’t do anything but move one of his hands under Billy’s shirt. Billy’s skin was searing, slightly sweaty from the alcohol and tight bodies in the bar. It should have been gross.

With a moan, Steve rolled his hips against Billy’s thigh, scraped his nails over Billy’s abdomen.

Billy whined, higher and needier than Steve though possible, fucking embarrassing. Billy swore and fucked against Steve’s thigh, already shivering and hard.

It was easy for Steve to undo Billy’s fly, even as his nerves shook and his breath caught. He’d never done this before, hadn’t really thought about it. Billy sucked on his neck, bit the flesh, and suddenly it didn’t matter. Steve pulled Billy’s dick out of his briefs, tried to get air as he ran his thumb over the tip.

Billy wasn’t kissing Steve anymore, instead had his head on Steve’s shoulder as he watched between them. “Holy fuck,” Billy said, practically fucking marveled.

When Steve tugged, Billy’s hips stuttered, fucked forward with the movement, dick already fat and leaking.

It was a scramble to get Steve’s jeans open, Billy’s hands on him fast. Steve couldn’t watch, suddenly stricken by the alien quality of it, the wave of confused arousal he’d felt before. Billy was touching him. Billy was twisting his hand over Steve’s dick like it was his fucking job.

“Billy,” Steve gasped, trying to get at Billy’s mouth. He knocked their cheeks together, but Billy wouldn’t lift his head, just kept looking at Steve’s hand.

That was like, not alright. Steve grabbed Billy by the jaw and kissed him firm, kept him in place between ruby-red talons, trapped. “Fucking _killing_ me,” Billy said against Steve’s lips.

Steve didn’t know what was hotter, Billy’s skin under his palms or the rush of power he felt knowing how they got there. He came with a whine, felt girlish and shivering as he clumsily got Billy to his brink. Slick come dribbled over Steve’s fingers. For a split second, he debated putting it in his mouth. Then he got a hold of himself, because what the fuck.

“Get off me,” Steve said, pushing Billy’s shoulder back.

Billy tripped over his feet a little, dick flopping out of his zipper. Steve quickly tucked himself back into his pants, grimaced. “You got jizz on my fucking jeans, you jackass.” But it was a shocked statement, had him sober and dazed.

“Shit, sorry,” Billy said, rubbing his nose with his inner arm. “Looks good on you, though?”

Which, no. Steve pushed around him to wash his hands in the sink. “You’re so fucked up.”

“And you look so fucked. Christ. Who knew Stevie Harrington got sex flush?”

And Steve knew sometimes when things were good, he forgot to breathe. Going pink and blotchy was his curse, gave him away every fucking time. He knew Billy had him trapped, couldn’t stand it. “I’m going home.”

Billy knocked him aside to get at the sink. “Have fun. Tommy owes me another round.”

 

Steve wasn’t sure how he got back, or how he got in bed, or how long it was before he heard Tommy fumbling at the front door. He just remembered streetlights, cool California air licking his arms as he passed closed shopfronts and rows of old apartments. There was a hookah bar at the corner where he turned off the main road, and he’d felt something clench in his stomach at the hazy air hanging in the front room, pink and gold dancing in the low-light from the glow of a television. It was some movie with Emma Stone, he thought. Something about being easy.

The doorknob jiggled, followed by a huff and a laugh. Steve pressed his face into his pillow.

“Shh, you’re going to wake up Steve,” Carol said. The door slammed. “Billy! That is not what I just said.”

“Oh, who cares,” Tommy said. “He sleeps like a fucking rock.”

“You sleep like a fucking rock,” Billy corrected. “Steve’s constantly waking up.”

“Oh, you know this from experience, huh? You guys having sleepovers?”

“No,” Billy said. Steve wondered if it was possible to smother himself. “I just hear him walking around all the time. Drives me fucking crazy.”

As if Billy shouldn’t be grateful, needing to be let in every night like some kind of mangy outdoor cat. One of those cartoon thugs, with a ring pierced through its ear and a wonky eye. God, Steve needed to get some fucking sleep.

“He used to get bad night terrors,” Carol said.

“You saying that so I feel bad for him?”

“No, just. Sleep can be hard for some people, you know?”

Steve didn’t need her to say it like that, like his life story was sad and wanting. He hadn’t had a dream that rough in years, definitely didn’t think Billy needed to know that he used to walk around with dark circles under his eyes. Nancy used to kiss his eyelids after bad dreams, like she could banish the things behind his lashes, tuck them deep behind her love, and wasn’t that the fucking funny part, the part that made Steve sad.

“You said used to?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t complained in years? He’s been looking better. Even without that bitch, Nancy.”

“I thought you liked Nancy?” Tommy said. A door opened.

Carol laughed like she was whispering on stage, a muffled ghost of a sound. She said, “Yeah, when she’s in the room.”

“What changed?” Billy asked.

“I don’t know,” Carol said. “Probably therapy? His mom used to say stuff about therapy. Apparently she thinks everyone should have a therapist, like she doesn’t think they cost money, or something.”

“I think it’s more that she doesn’t care?” Tommy offered. “C’mon, babe. I’m going to fall over.”

“That’s your six beers,” Carol said.

“Fuck off,” Tommy whined. A door closed.

No light shone from the other room. It was like the apartment had stilled, settled like Steve’s mind, all the moving pieces calming like he tried to be. Carol was half-right. Steve wondered if he’d aged out of his old restlessness, if time had changed him more than smooth speaking women with false eyelashes and sleeping pills. When sleep came, it was dark and heavy, dreamless. The trouble was catching that peace and keeping it.

 

A door opened and closed. Steve rolled on his back and rubbed his eyes. The clock said three-oh-seven, but that didn’t mean much. The time didn’t explain the bed dipping on his left, or the blankets lifting to let in a rush of cold air.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked, tongue thick and leaden.

There was a pause, then, “My back’s just being shit. Fucking couch.” Billy faced away from Steve, sheets all bunched in his arms, pulling them across the bed.

Steve grabbed what was left on his side and rolled as well, tugging hard, but Billy didn’t budge. “No one said you had to come here,” Steve said.

“Yeah, well, I’m also not leaving, so.”

“Fuck you,” Steve said, but it was weak, half-asleep.

“Tried that tonight,” Billy offered.

And well, that shut Steve up.

 

Billy wasn’t there when Steve woke, the blankets on the far side of the bed peeled back like they’d just been vacated, but the mattress was cold. Steve let his palm rest in the middle of where Billy would have lain, shoulders inches from Steve’s, warm breath on Steve’s neck.

The smell of hot pancakes laced the air like beams of late-morning sunlight, tugging Steve’s eyes open and awake. He sat and stretched, rolled the crinkle out of his neck, tried to decide if there was anything intrinsically different between this morning and the last, as if touching another dude’s dick was some kind of transubstantiation. See, he knew some fucking Catholic shit.

He grabbed the rolled-up shirt at the end of his bed, shook it out, and pulled it on. He should shower, really, and find something fresh to wear, but his dry mouth and rumbling belly begged for eggs and Tropicana, and he was pretty sure he didn’t smell _that_ bad. Who was he going to impress anyway? Carol?

“What band is this?” Steve asked, running a hand through his hair as he stepped into the kitchen. There were a lot of drums and guitars, words Steve couldn’t place.

 

Billy stood at the stove, shirtless, spatula dangling from his hand like he fucking owned it. He said, “Architects. Do you even listen to music?”

“Yeah, _music_ ,” Steve said.

Billy rolled his eyes and turned the speaker on his phone up louder. Steve grabbed a mug and leaned back against the counter as he watched the coffee maker gurgle.

“Hey.” Billy pointed with the spatula. “We gotta talk, man. You can’t keep stealing my clothes.”

“What the fuck would I want with your clothes?”

But maybe Steve wasn’t the best detective, because when he looked down he found a large gash of red running the length of his white t-shirt. It looked like lipstick, not like the fucking _Shining,_ or some shit, but.

Between the pancakes and the sleep in his eyes, Steve didn’t know what to do with the lump in his chest, didn’t even know what he wanted it to mean, really. He put his hand next to the smear. “You think it matches my nails?”

“Oh yeah,” Billy said, snorted. “You’re going to make every girl at prom jealous.”

“I did do that, thank you very much,” Steve said. “Pussy was fucking easy for me in high school, man.”

Billy scrunched his nose and flipped the pancake. “Dude, I told you, I don’t want to know about what your, like, unaccompanied minor dick got up to.”

“We both know it wasn’t minor.”

Billy laughed. “Jesus Christ. And people say I’m a fuckboi?”

“You kind of are.”

It almost felt like flirting, a hairs-breath away from normal. Steve still wanted to smash Billy’s face in, but it was subdued by some afterglow, had him eager to lick every spot his fists pressed. He tapped his nails against his empty mug and looked out the window. “Are you going to wash those dishes, after?”

Billy flopped the last pancake onto a plate and turned off the stove. “What? No.”

“Is there food?” Carol asked. She came into the kitchen with open arms, wrapped around Billy’s waist in sweats and one of Tommy’s shirts. “You’re so sweet, baby.”

Which, “Hey, I bought that food.” Steve took coffee from the pot, said, “He didn’t do anything.”

“Awe, come on,” Billy said. He kissed Carol’s cheek. “I made it with love.”

“Yeah, _love._ ”

It would be bad form to start breaking things, but Steve idly remembered that he’d bought all the mugs as well, making it well within his power to seal their fate. Instead, he said, “You all owe me, like, six fifty, or something.”

“Shh.” Carol shifted across the kitchen to kiss his cheek. “You boys are so good to treat me.”

 

They never sat at the kitchen table. There wasn’t much point to it. It wasn’t like they were some kind of mismatched suburban family, Tommy the grumpy dad who read the paper and Carol the doting mom who always forgot her kids’ favourite lunchmeats. Plus, that concept would make Billy Steve’s brother, so.

Anyway, cutlery clinked together as they finished off their pancakes and fluffy eggs. Steve took his final sip of coffee as Billy stuck his last bite in his mouth. Was it really Friday morning? Steve pulled at his shirt. Maybe he should have changed.

“Thanks, dude,” Tommy said, patting his belly.

With her hands full of dishes, Carol stood up from her seat. “Yeah, it was great, thanks.”

“Whatever,” Billy said, as he reached for his coffee. “All this shit came out of a box. Well, except the eggs.”

“It’s the effort,” Carol insisted.

“Thank Steve, he’s the one cleaning this shit,” Tommy said, but there was a bit of a laugh thrown in, like he’d told a good joke, like he was so fucking funny.

As Steve stood, his thighs bumped the table, making the whole thing shake. He didn’t know what he was feeling, aside from hot along his shoulders, poison on his tongue. “Actually,” he said, and placed his hand on the back of Billy’s neck, nails scraping the flesh as Billy’s shoulders rose. “Billy said he’d do them today?”

Before Billy could protest, or Steve could think about what he was doing, Steve slid his hand to rub Billy’s shoulder, even dared to ghost his nails over the upper part of Billy’s chest.

“Yeah.” Billy cleared his throat. “It’s, uh, the least I could do.”

Carol laughed. “Please, like you’ve ever washed a dish in your life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing just keeps getting longer?? Help??  
> Super big love to uncaringerinn and captaindumbass for being blessings and looking this chapter over through all my uncertainty.  
> As always, feedback is loved and appreciated, just like you!  
> Hopefully I'll have the next chapter out soon. The plan is to finish this before Season 3? We'll see.


	4. you can be the boss, daddy (you can be the boss)

“I’m not doing that,” Billy said, standing on the couch. Actually standing on it, like some kind of jungle man who had never learned how to handle fucking furniture.

“Okay, well, _I’m_ not doing it, so if you don’t, Tommy is going to fucking freak.”

Billy scrunched his nose, as if he hadn’t thrown up last night and half-missed the toilet bowl. Yesterday morning seemed like an impossible reality under the sun of a new day. Billy had gone out alone last night and came back smashed, crawled into Steve’s bed like it was totally peachy. But when Steve woke, Billy was on the couch. When Steve went to piss, he nearly puked as well.

“Really?” Billy asked, licking his lips. “It’s your bathroom? Why would I do it?”

He was astonishing, really. Steve wanted to rip his guts out. Instead, Steve took careful steps around the coffee table and looked up along the curve of Billy’s bare chest. The dusting of blonde hair that licked and curled across Billy’s muscles was nothing like the thick forest Steve was slowly cultivating on his torso. Something about it made Steve’s mouth dry.

“I think you’re going to clean it,” Steve said.

“Not on your fucking life.”

Steve set his teeth and settled his dignity, before reaching up to place his hands on Billy’s shoulders. “You wouldn’t do something like that for me?” Steve asked. He rubbed circles on Billy’s collarbones with his thumbs before dragging his hands down his chest, letting his nails pull phantom-light over his skin. “I would really appreciate it.”

“Fuck you.” Billy’s voice was choked, head bowed, but not to look at Steve.

“Please?” Steve brought his hands lower, let them slide over Billy’s abdomen before slipping around to squeeze his hips. He dug his fingers in as hard as he dared, didn’t think about the rush of pleasure in his blood, the headiness of power, or what it meant.

Billy took a slow breath, said, “Why should I?”

Steve stepped in closer, rest his chin against Billy’s chest to catch his eyes. “Because you’re disgusting, and I’d be _very_ grateful,” he said, and flexed his fingers.

As if considering, Billy put his hands around Steve’s neck. “I fucking hate you.”

 

 _Buy orange juice_ , Steve’s phone said, when he was halfway down the produce aisle. Like Steve wasn’t going to restock his own fucking supply, hadn’t been taking care of himself since he was fifteen. He didn’t text Billy back, just clicked the message shut with a nail and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

 

By the time Steve was back from the grocery store, the bathroom was clean.

 

The next time Billy climbed into Steve’s bed, it was three days later, harsh vodka on Billy’s breath as he rest against Steve’s neck. Steve should have pushed him out, really, but Billy had been so easy, so _compliant_ compared to his usual self, that Steve couldn’t do anything but run his hand through Billy’s hair. He scratched his fingers over Billy’s scalp, nose to his forehead, and wondered.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked.

“Bad back,” Billy grumbled.

“You’re a fucking liar.”

“You talk too much.”

Steve pushed on Billy’s shoulder, thought maybe this was too much. Sure, there was something going on, something Steve didn’t really want to put a name on, if he could even figure out how to name it, but.

With a ghost of a laugh, Billy ran a hand over Steve’s bare back and sunk it into his shorts. “You really going to do me like that, baby?”

Steve’s breath caught. “What are you doing?”

“I cleaned your fucking bathroom.”

“Alright, _yeah_ , but what are you doing?”

Billy pulled his head back enough to squint at him, although there couldn’t have been much to see in the dark, shadows hardly cast by the streetlights, their faces so close their eyelashes could kiss. “You’re enjoying this,” Billy said, slow, almost questioning.

“Am I?” Steve answered.

For a second, it seemed like Billy was going to shake awake and get with the program. This wasn’t his house and this wasn’t his bed. The wine in the fridge was always too old or too cold, never just right.

Billy moved back as Steve reached for him, Billy’s breath snagging in his nose when Steve pressed his nails into the meat of his back. “What are you doing?” Billy asked.

Steve didn’t know. He said, “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah, okay?” Billy shifted. “If this is, like, not happening, I can—”

But it kind of was happening. The hand on Steve’s ass was warm and a little sweaty, thick fingers resting between his cheeks, left there like an afterthought, pressing like the breaths ghosting against his chin. Steve could feel his cells slowly blinking and waking up, hairs raised from the spots where Billy’s skin met his skin.

When Steve kissed him, it was sleep deprived and sloppy, not quite on his mouth. Steve held Billy’s cheeks between both hands, thumbs brushing the dips and hollows of his smile as Billy crowded forward, moaned into Steve’s mouth.

“You ever finger yourself?” Billy asked, pulling Steve closer by his ass, squeezing like he’d check a peach for ripeness.

The concept made Steve hot, dizzy, a little nauseous. He poked a claw into Billy’s nose, intestines twisting as Billy’s stubble scraped over his neck. “I can’t finger _anyone_ right now.”

“Never said you had to.” Billy spoke against his lips, caught his protests between his teeth. He tugged on Steve’s lip, let it snap back before kissing him sound. “Think you’d like it though, Pretty Boy.”

Steve’s nose scrunched. “What, why?”

Billy _tsk_ ed like that was a fucking explanation and rubbed a finger over Steve’s hole.

Something made Steve want to hold in all his truths, hide how he’d thought about Billy’s fingers, his mouth, his _cock_ all pressed against him, inside him. But his body moved, shuddered as he rocked back against Billy’s hand. The way Billy’s arm took up space in Steve’s shorts pulled the fabric tight against his cock, provided a sort of friction that ached but wasn’t enough. “Just do it,” he rushed out, voice a needy ghost.

“You got lube?”

Steve’s throat was dry. “In the drawer.”

At first, Billy didn’t move, just kept rubbing Steve, dropping kisses, letting their clothed dicks brush together at an angle that was too bad to even tease. Then he gave Steve’s shorts a quick tug, leaving them stuck around his thighs as he shuffled back to wriggle his own underwear off. Steve got the memo, elbows and knees bumping with Billy’s as he fought to get just as naked, finally shoving his shorts to the bottom of the bed with his toes as Billy reached across to the night stand.

“Shit, how many condoms do you own?”

“ _Billy._ ”

“No, like, this is impressive. Like a sad horde or something.”

It was flattering, or embarrassing, or something, Steve couldn’t tell, but he was a second from sitting up and getting out of bed when Billy was back on him, one leg thrown over his hip as Billy kissed him. “You ever done this? You don’t gotta lie to me.”

Steve closed his eyes. It was that or stare at the ceiling, counting how many girls he’d asked that question. “No.”

“It’s gonna be so good. So good, baby,” Billy rambled, drunken promises.

Steve felt shitty, sober, but. He reached between them, felt his breath catch as he took them both in his hand, jerked them slow. “You gonna like it too?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Billy promised. He got between Steve’s legs and spread him wide.

It was a bit embarrassing, felt a bit foolish as Steve let Billy move him around. When Billy finally had him propped up enough, one finger slick and sliding in as Billy kissed his neck, it didn’t feel at all like Steve thought it would. It definitely felt like something, but—“That’s it?” Steve asked.

“What?”

“I mean. It’s just sort of weird—”

“Holy crap, you have no fucking patience.”

Steve wanted to say that it was fucking easy for Billy to say that, when he wasn’t the one on his back, hands feeling useless as they dug into Billy’s shoulders, but then Billy was moving, one hand pumping Steve’s cock while the other pushed and prodded, fucked Steve gently until the feelings intermingled, the strangeness became a sweet burn.

“Touch yourself,” Billy said, letting go, and Steve was fast to obey, breaths rough and light as he gripped himself, tried to match Billy’s thrusts.

In the dark, Steve could just make out Billy kneeling at his hips, a hand fisted around his own cock as he thrust another finger inside Steve. Maybe Billy was watching him, trying to see how his mouth opened when he moaned, like Steve could just make out his clenched teeth. Or maybe he was watching Steve’s hands, thinking about ruby red and sharp talons, strong wrists. Maybe he was focusing on his fingers, the in and out Steve couldn’t force his thoughts to stray from.

If Steve wasn’t already so far gone, so breathless, so shaking, he might have done something stupid. Might have begged to be fucked, like he even knew how or why. “So good to me,” he said instead, managing to grab Billy’s thigh in the dark and dig his nails in hard.

Billy’s breath caught, choked, and it wasn’t until Steve had come all over his own stomach, thighs quaking, that he realized that was probably the moment Billy came.

 

Steve woke to underwear tangled around his ankle, come sticking him to the sheets, and an empty bed. He smacked off the alarm and rubbed his eyes, before reaching down to get the stupid things off his ankle. If it weren’t for all the evidence, and the faint feeling of being alien-probed, Steve might have chalked it all up to a very vivid dream. The other side of his bed was half-made, like maybe it had never been touched, and his door was securely closed.

It wasn’t until he held the underwear above his head that it clicked. These weren’t his. He’d never worn black Calvin Klein briefs in his life.

 

Nancy sat on the floor with one arm draped across the seat of the couch, legs folded under her as she held her cabernet sauvignon. “Please tell me Billy isn’t coming here,” she said.

“You say that like you think I know when he’s going to show up.”

“He doesn’t even text?”

Steve pulled out his phone, tapped through his notifications, and lay it on the table. Nothing interesting. “Only memes and dick jokes.”

“So, he texts like you.” Nancy smiled over the lip of her glass.

“Shut up,” Steve said.

“He seriously doesn’t even let you know when he’s coming?”

“He might tell Tommy? But I’m the one who always ends up answering the door, so, like.”

“I don’t know why you put up with him.”

Steve’s list of reasons was slowly growing, but he wasn’t about to admit why. Instead he said, “I don’t. I’m so fucking done with him, Nance.”

“Mmhm.” She raised her eyebrows and took a sip from her glass. She’d always been a little too good at reading a room, which was probably why she always noticed things he didn’t, like the shy boy smiling at her in her ethics class, or his father feigning a bad stomach to avoid sitting through Christmas dinner.

It had been a day and a half since Steve had woken up alone. Before he could be clever, fumble something smart, his phone was buzzing. He grabbed it too fast.

“Billy?” Nancy asked.

“Sue, from our local republican party.” Steve showed her his phone. “She wants to know how I feel about recent environmental legislation.”

Nancy scrunched her nose. “I hate getting those. Robocallers should stay out of my text messages. Just delete it.”

“I don’t know,” Steve said, thumb hovering over Billy’s name in his contacts. “I was thinking I might ask her what she’s wearing.”

“You’re gross.”

He winked, set his phone down, resisted the urge to check it, and check it, and check it, in case he missed the buzz. “Why do you think he’s going to be here, anyway?”

“Because he’s always here? He practically lives here.” She shrugged, tapped her nails on her wine glass. Maybe that’s where he’d gotten that from. “I don’t think I spent that much time here when we were dating.”

Steve pointedly didn’t choke or clear his throat. He worked around the peach pit lodged between his tonsils, said, “I don’t know, you know I’ve been trying to get rid of him since day one.”

Nancy sighed and scratched her head, messing up her already unravelling bun. She’d do this sometimes, call him up and ask if he wanted to chat, or have a drink, or pretend that months ago he hadn’t thought they were in love.

It wasn’t callous, exactly. Her heart was in the right place. They had been lovers before best friends, but they’d become best friends as lovers, had grown to wear each other like well-worn sweaters. The spark had died down to nothing as they navigated school together, made plans she couldn’t keep, but it was always nice to pretend to be a grown-up with her. She knew he didn’t have that many friends anymore, and that he’d keep her friendship for anything. It was just also kind of shit.

“He’s just. Disgusting. And kind of awful,” Nancy said.

Steve would argue, but. “He literally left underwear covered in jizz on my floor the other day.”

“Oh, what? What the fuck.” She grimaced, hid her face behind her glass. “He has like, no fucking clue how humans act. He’s just such a dick. Last time I saw him, you know, when you were getting your nails done? He literally didn’t even say hi to me. He just kept looking at me as I walked up, and when I said hi he got all up in my face.”

“What was that about, anyway?”

Nancy pinched the bridge of her nose, like she did when she was asking for patience. “He said, and this is a direct quote, that I was a _huge fucking bitch_ for not coming to your party.”

Steve’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“Right?” She waved a hand. “I thought maybe he was serious until I found you inside. He literally just yelled at me for the sake of yelling at me.”

But Steve wasn’t so sure anymore, didn’t know what anything meant. His phone buzzed, but he didn’t grab for it.

“Why didn’t you come, anyway?” He asked.

“It was late?” Nancy shrugged, took a sip. “We were already in bed, and you sounded sad, I guess. Which, okay, yeah, kind of makes me a bad friend? But. I didn’t think I was what you needed, you know? I thought I was going to make it worse.”

The phone buzzed on the table again, making the wine left in the bottle slosh around. “For fuckssake, Sue—” Steve said, picking it up.

“They really want know what you think, huh? I only got one of those.”

One message was from Sue. The other two were from Tommy. Steve rubbed his face and put his phone back down. “You know, I know it would probably be some kind of sexual harassment to actually text back and ask what they’re wearing, but at this point I think it’s justified retaliation.”

 

It had been a week.

“You know how I was saying you need to get your nails done every two to three weeks?” Carol asked, the sound of those weird filing dremels buzzing in the background. “Well, I’ve got an opening this afternoon, if you don’t have class, and it’s been almost three weeks.”

Steve looked at the cursor flashing on his computer, his half-written economics paper judging him as he asked, “Is it worth it? I mean, if I’m just going to take them off in a week.”

“Um, yes. I’m not having you walk around town with my handiwork looking like garbage. What if someone asks you who did them?”

She did have a point. Steve had been trying to keep it from getting to him, but the number of people who wanted to talk to him about his hands, and his salon, and his gender politics, had increased about five-hundred-fold since Carol had first done his nails. Maybe if he gave a fuck, it would have been validating, but he didn’t have a single goddamn horse in the race. The nails weren’t self expression, or rebellion, or trendsetting. They just— _were_.

“I guess they’re getting kind of long,” he said.

“Great. I’ll see you at three?”

“Yeah, uh. Is that blonde chick going to be there again? The bitchy one?”

“No, she took the afternoon off. Thank fuck.”

 

When Steve stepped into the salon, there was some gymnastics movie playing, something with Fall Out Boy and teenage angst. The chairs were loaded wall to wall, a patron at nearly every table and foot soaking bucket. Carol looked up when the bell rang and grinned. “Just take a seat and I’ll bring you over in a second,” she said, waving over her client’s shoulder.

“Is that your boyfriend?” The woman asked. She had a cute curly bob and glasses with rhinestones on the corners, looked like the kind of girl Steve would probably ask for help in his finance class.

“Oh, no,” Carol laughed. She painted the woman’s nails robin’s egg blue. “He’s my boyfriend’s roommate, actually. He’s here for a nail fill.”

“That’s so cool!” The woman said. “Do you get a lot of guys coming here? I think it’s so great how this field is diversifying. Like, it’s about time guys started wearing make-up too, without all that garbage machoism and shit. My last boyfriend drove me absolutely crazy. He would only wear salmon, like he thought he was _allergic_ to pink or something—"

Steve sunk lower in his chair. Maybe she wasn’t so cute, after all.

If Steve had known he’d be waiting, he would have come later, or like, brought his statistics textbook or something. The last week had felt like lead in his belly, the weight of work and sleepless nights tugging him towards the earth. There were so many things to do, and so many people who wanted him places, and not nearly enough hours in the year.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his messages. Tommy wanted him to buy beer. Nancy wanted to know if he had plans for Saturday. His mom wanted to know if he’d tried that new lentil soup recipe she’d sent, because, _it’s not soup season, but this recipe is meant to be great for dreams, baby. Tilda promises. You remember your Aunt Tilda? She’s training to be a homeopath. She says to put amethyst under your pillow._

Steve didn’t have an Aunt Tilda, but he guessed she meant the woman from her country club, the one who always looked a little like she’d had one too many Xanax and always over-spiked the punch at their annual Super Bowl party. He was pretty sure her husband worked with his dad.

His thumb hovered over Billy’s name. Looking closely, he could see the bare nail, virgin nail, where the acrylic had grown out.

_Buy orange juice._

Maybe he should have texted Billy, but. The longer he held his finger over the open box, the more he felt like it wasn’t his turn, like making the next pass would be presumptuous, needy. It was just weird for Billy to be gone for so long. Not that Steve wanted him on his couch, burning through his groceries, leaving his clothes all over, smoking in the living room when their building had a strict no smoking policy, but.

“Steve?” Carol called.

Steve quickly stuffed his phone in his pocket, rubbed his hands on his chinos, and made his way over to her chair.

“Hey babe, did you pick a colour?” She asked, taking his hands to inspect them the second he sat down.

“No, uh. I was thinking I might just do black? You know, keep it simple. But, uh. A little more masculine. That’s like, a punk thing, right?”

She pursed her lips. “Even in that gray shirt, I don’t think anyone would mistake you as punk.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Okay,” She said, drew it out real slow, and started to set up her supplies. “Did I hear Nancy was over again yesterday?”

“Yeah. She’s studying for this exam and the library is giving her anxiety, and Jonathan’s been working on this project that has him playing the guitar literally day and night. She basically wants to murder him. But Billy hasn’t really been around, and I’m working on a bunch of papers too, so it’s been quiet, so I offered.”

“That’s twice this week, isn’t it?”

“Is Tommy like, trying to snitch on me or something? What is this, and intervention?”

“No,” Carol said, too quickly. “Nothing like that. That’s just a lot of time with your ex, you know? I just wondered if something was, you know. Up.”

It was the last thing that had been on his mind in days. Even when they were crowded around his kitchen table, working quietly, he hadn’t so much thought about their knees bumping. There had been one moment where she bit her pen cap like she did when something was really putting her through the wringer, and he remembered why he’d loved her, but it was just that, one moment, a blip.

“Nothing is up,” Steve said, rubbed his face with the hand she wasn’t working on. “Seriously, it’s. I don’t think I even want to sleep with her anymore, you know? I’ve been doing good lately.” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “These have been weirdly good for my sex life.”

“Oh, really?” Carol’s tone shifted fast, teasing. “Anything promising?”

Over the years, he’d told Carol probably too much about himself. They grew up together with Tommy, stuck in Hawkins fucking Indiana, and moved across he country because, by some luck, Tommy and Steve got into the same school. Steve would never admit to applying because Tommy had his heart set on it. Carol would probably never admit that she moved exclusively for Tommy, even though Steve had guessed it one night when Tommy turned in early and they’d been drunk and alone. This, though. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say.

“Maybe, I don’t know. It was just one person? But. More than once, you know? And now I haven’t heard anything in days, so.”

“You’re being ghosted? What the fuck.” She filed down the length of his nails. “If it means anything, if I wasn’t dating Tommy, I would totally fuck you.”

Steve grinned, always did when she made that promise. “I really missed my chance. Should have shared more crayons with you in kindergarten.”

“Yeah, you fucking did. I had to settle for Tommy, and you know what he’s like.”

Steve bit his lip to muffle his laugh, could see her own mirth bubbling behind her eyes.

“And you want to marry him.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Lord knows someone has to.”

“It’s nice, though, you know. He really loves you.”

“I know.” She raised his hands up to show him the shape of his nails. “Is this good?”

“Yeah.” He paused, thought he might be saying too much. “I’ve been thinking about maybe keeping them another three weeks, you know, give them their wear? Get my money’s worth.”

“Shit, you must really like this girl, huh?”

The swoop in Steve’s stomach made him want to puke. “No, just. I actually kind of hate them, a little? I was just thinking it would make your work worthwhile.”

“That’s sweet,” Carol said, like he was a liar. Which, fucking rude.

 

The next day, Steve woke up feeling sick, the kind of gnawing nausea he couldn’t place, that made his whole morning class dragging. He’d figured out how to type with the nails, even if it was still slower than his normal typing speed, but it seemed like he couldn’t keep up, numbers and facts swimming as his professor shot her laser pointer around her PowerPoint.

 _Is your class as bad as mine?_ He texted Billy, knew they both had class Wednesday mornings because Billy was always making eggs two hours earlier than normal, hustling them both out the door because Steve was tempted to skip literally every week.

By the end of class, he still hadn’t answered.

_Buy orange juice._

_Is your class as bad as mine?_

Something about that made Steve’s jaw clench, drew the last straw. _You put your fingers in my fucking ass and you can’t even text me?_

Nothing. By three in the afternoon, the heat was still rolling behind his eyes, had chest tight and heavy He’d wanted to get rid of Billy. He’d been talking for months about he wanted him fucking gone, but the last fucking way he’d fathomed that would happen was this. This was low, even for Billy.

Honestly, if they both pretended it never happened, just kept fighting, it would have been better. Steve wouldn’t have given a fuck.

The everything bagel he grabbed from Starbucks for his too-late lunch tasted sour and stale. When he texted Tommy, he gave Billy’s address right away, followed by _why?_

Steve didn’t answer.

 

“Hey, Hargrove, open the fuck up!” Steve said as he pounded on the door. Billy’s apartment was in one of those two-story square complexes, where every unit had a door that went outside, surrounding a pool. The walls were pink stucco. It was the last place he’d envisioned when Billy had talked about his apartment. It was also less than a ten minute walk from Steve’s place, which made him extra angry. He’d only had to take a bus because he’d come from campus. He was literally going to walk home after. It didn’t make any fucking sense.

When no one answered, he just banged harder, threw the weight of his anger against the wood like it might do something.

“Holy fuck, stop!” And Steve did, stopped short, because that wasn’t Billy’s voice.

A thin redhead with Billy’s fire in her eyes opened the front door, her sneer a perfect match. “What the fuck do you want?”

For one second, Steve’s blood froze. Did Billy have a girlfriend? Was he just couch surfing when they fought, because he was a flake, because he had commitment issues? It occurred to him that if Billy had a girlfriend, then he was cheating on her, like, at least once a week, which.

“Hi,” she waved her hand in his face. “What the fuck do you want? My brother’s not here.”

Steve deflated, wanted to vomit for all new reasons. He stuck his hands in his pockets, hoped she couldn’t make out his clenched fists. He said, “I just haven’t seen him in a bit. Wanted to make sure he wasn’t dead or something.”

“Right,” she said, closing the door a bit. “Well, he went to go run some errands. I don’t know when he’s coming back.”

“Oh, right. Uh.” Steve regretted his words immediately. He was a fucking moron when he asked, “Can I come in? I don’t mind waiting.”

She looked at him like he was the stupidest person she’d ever met, and that was fair. She said, “No.”

“Steve?” Someone asked from inside the apartment, and oh my god, he knew that voice.

“Lucas?” He asked, trying to see around the woman. “Shit, dude, what are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here? Max is my girlfriend.”

“Shit, this is Max?” Steve said, giving her a quick glance. The look on her face was textbook Billy, but the way she held the door was something else, guarded, like she wanted to will him away from the frame with her mind.

“How do you know Lucas?” She asked, sharp.

Before Steve could answer, Lucas was stepping up to the door and doing for him. “Steve’s that old dude Dustin never shuts up about. The one who helped him get into that bar at the beginning of the year? Who like, became his guru?”

“Please don’t ever say that again,” Steve begged. He felt like shit, realized he’d hardly even thought about Dustin in weeks, aside from offering a quick bit of advice on hair care and a reminder that Pet Semetary was a horrible first date choice.

“You’re _that_ Steve? How the fuck did you end up knowing my brother?”

Steve thought that telling her he was getting to know her brother on a biblical level was probably a bad fucking idea, so what he said instead was, “He’s best friends with my roommate and has basically claimed my living room as his nest or something. I can’t get rid of him.”

She squinted. “If you want to get rid of him, why are you looking for him?”

Which, there was no good way to explain that, even to himself, so. “Can I just come in?”

“He’s good people, Max,” Lucas said, and Steve maybe had to reassess which of Dustin’s little freshmen friends he liked best.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Max said.

Lucas looked like he was going to argue, which was good, because Steve was running a little low on sales pitches, when a voice called down the hall, “Steve? What are you doing here?”

Steve’s heart jogged up to his throat. He turned quick on his heel. “Billy—” he said, but his words died in his throat.

Billy didn’t just look murderous. He looked sort of crazed, flanked by a disapproving middle aged man with a horrible 80’s mustache and a redheaded woman in a faded floral cardigan.

“I uh—” Steve cleared his throat. “You weren’t answering your texts?”

“You need to leave now.”

“Shit,” Lucas said, stuffing his shoes on his feet. “Billy said he’d text when they were headed back here.”

“I know!” Max said, words a quiet hiss.

Lucas practically pushed Steve out of the doorway, dragging Steve down the hall with him, shoulders raised. The look the man behind Billy was giving Lucas made Steve understand the urgency, hairs raising and goosebumps forming along his neck, even if it was unseasonably warm for the middle of winter.

“Who was that?” The man asked, voice hard.

“No one, Dad,” Billy said, short. “Just this guy from some of my classes. He gets real worked up about group projects.”

Steve didn’t hear what reply he got to that, just heard the man say, “Maxine, I thought you’d stopped seeing that boy.” Before the slam of a door closing, then silence.

“What the fuck?” he asked.

Like a man who knew this dance, Lucas’s pace didn’t falter. “Max’s step-dad is a psychopath. He’ll show up and stay with them for a week without warning, probably just to keep the fear of god in them, or some shit. I’m fucking glad they moved upstate when Max’s mom married him, because oh my god, does he hate me.”

“What did you do?”

“Exist? I’m black?” Lucas offered. “He’s just. A piece of work.”

It was occurring to Steve rather quickly that he didn’t know a single fucking thing about Billy Hargrove. He didn’t think _Tommy_ knew a thing about him, because this felt like the kind of thing that would have come up.

“Honestly, I get why you came here to skin Billy, though. He’s pretty fucked up too. Angry all the time, constantly fights with Max. Hates me.”

That sounded more like the Billy Steve knew, but—“He’s not racist. I’ve seen him bag like, literally every kind of girl.”

“I never said he was racist.” Lucas scrunched his nose. “He just hates me on general principle, by extension? I don’t even fucking know. You happen to drive here? I could use a ride back.”

“Nah, dude. I’m walking.”

“Fuck, guess I’m catching the bus. You walk that way? What’s up with your hands, anyway, is that some, like, new trend I’m not in on?”

 

The banging on the apartment door was so loud that Steve was surprised the whole building wasn’t going to collapse with the reverberations. The clock promised it was just past midnight. Steve hadn’t fallen asleep even an hour ago, had been tossing and turning forever, so it was like, really not fucking cool.

He stomped to the front door in just his sweatpants, more furious than ever to see Billy on the other side, holding his laptop and a half-drunk bottle of whiskey. He didn’t even have it in a fucking bag.

“Fuck you,” Steve said.

“Alright, yeah, whatever,” Billy said, shouldering past him like he hadn’t ignored him for a whole week and then glared him out of his apartment literally that afternoon.

Steve was so tired that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to scream or cry. “Cool, great. I’m going to bed,” he said. It was all just fucking fine.

Billy didn’t say anything, was too busy setting his laptop on the coffee table and fucking around with his clothes.

Steve didn’t slam the door behind him, didn’t bother turning on any lights, just climbed in bed and pressed his face into the pillow, like maybe lightly suffocating himself would help get to sleep. He’d tried nearly every other damn thing.

Every shuffle outside seemed to echo in his mind, the soft _thunk_ of something hitting the coffee table and Billy’s curse sticking to Steve’s brain like maybe Billy was inside it, burning him up like a disease, making him hot, sick. The doorknob clicked and the door creaked open, slammed closed against the frame louder than it should.

“Get out,” Steve said.

The door didn’t open again. The bed dipped.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Steve said, rolling to face the fucking asshole climbing under his covers, lying with their faces less than a foot apart, when he hadn’t texted, hadn’t called, was nothing to Steve but a bad taste in his mouth.

“I can explain,” Billy said, breath ghosting Steve’s skin, even with their distance. He didn’t smell like whiskey. He smelled faintly like mint, like maybe he’d brushed his teeth before he walked over, sober, deliberate. It was only a ten minute walk.

“No, I really don’t think you can.”

“Look, this whole thing isn’t really my fault.”

“No, it’s definitely your fucking fault.”

“Steve—”

Steve kicked him in the shin before jumping out of bed, thumped over to the door and yanked it open. “Get out.”

“Baby—”

“I’m not your baby. You never asked if I would be, or implied you wanted that, or anything.”

Billy got out of bed, but it was slow. It was almost like he was approaching an animal, the way he walked slowly, arms out, hands going for Steve’s hips. Fat fucking chance. Steve pushed on his chest, sent him two steps back.

“ _Look_ ,” Billy said. “I didn’t fucking mean to just drop off like that, alright? My fucking parents came to town. You saw them.”

“So you suddenly forgot how a phone works?”

“No—” Billy took a deep breath. Maybe he was counting to ten, keep himself from knocking Steve’s teeth in. Steve was fighting back that impulse. “My dad asks every time I send a text message. He always wants to look at my phone. I wasn’t going to fucking tell him, oh, it’s just Steve, the guy I’m practically smashing. He wants to talk about me fingering him.”

“Then you could have hidden in the bathroom for two minutes!”

“It’s not that fucking easy. He’s not like your fucking cookie cutter parents, alright? He wants things a certain way and let’s you fucking know if you’re not meeting them. You know how much shit I got earlier for Sinclair fucking being there?”

“That was your sister’s fault.”

“Step-sister. And not to him. And I fucked up, forgot Sinclair was there and was supposed to message him. She’s not supposed to be dating him at all.”

“And what would he say about me, huh? The guy you’re trying to smash?”

“Oh, I’d probably get cut off. You know, the usual. I didn’t think you’d be fucking ballsy enough to show up to my fucking apartment.”

“And what about now? You thought I would just—that I would be _fine_ with this?”

Billy licked his lips, clenched fists raising and falling back to his sides.

Steve couldn’t help the echo in his head that said he was easy, clingy, soft. That he gave himself up too quickly for something that wasn’t real.

“I told you that you didn’t need a hook-up. You needed something long term. I don’t sleep next to the people I fuck.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Steve asked, blood ice.

“You’re not that fucking stupid.”

“Oh, _smart_ , thanks for bringing that up. I’ll call up every school teacher I ever had in Hawkins and give them that memo.”

Billy rubbed his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what is it? Because the way I see it, I caved, let you be the first guy to fuck me in any way, and you _ghosted me_ for the flimsiest fucking reason. I don’t even like you. You spend every day messing with me.”

It occurred to him how late it was, that screaming would probably wake his neighbours, that Mrs. Jenkins next door was probably about to start banging on the wall, reminding him to keep it down, but Tommy was at Carol’s, and he couldn’t stop himself, just kept vibrating at the wrong frequency. “Why the fuck do you think I’d want to date you?”

“I don’t know, because you let me have sex with you? Because you let me stay here all the time? Because I cook for you, like, literally constantly?”

“So—what, you thought that was like, _courtship_ , or something? You’re fucking horrible at this.”

“It wouldn’t happen again, alright? I’ll mention next time they’re in town, Christ. I stay here because they’re always fucking calling Max and asking how I am, and she can’t fucking tell them if she doesn’t know. I haven’t just—been trying to drive you crazy, or some shit.”

“You’re horrible at this.”

Billy touched Steve’s waist, licked his own lips when he wasn’t shoved off, said, “Yeah, I know, I get it.”

When he tried to kiss Steve, Steve turned away, made it land on his cheek. “What if I don’t want to date you?”

“You’d be missing out.”

Steve laughed. “You would think that.”

“Would I be wrong?”

And Steve took a deep breath, because he’d been crazy about this all week, because he liked settling his new black nails around Billy’s neck, digging them lightly into his nape. “You’re wrong.”

“Come back to bed.”

“It’s _my_ bed.”

But Steve did it anyway.

 

Everything about Billy was warm and sweaty. He slept like a furnace, thick arms trapping Steve’s back to his chest. When Steve would dream about bikini models wrapped around his waist, noses in his clavicle, he hadn’t entertained the idea of being held backwards, being only held instead of holding. It felt a little like Billy had always known something he hadn’t. In a way, he kind of had.

Steve shifted and pulled his blankets higher up to his chin. He wasn’t used to sleeping with someone else anymore. Not that any of the girls he had dated had been like this. If someone had asked him how Billy Hargrove was in bed, the first word that came to mind wouldn’t have been clingy, but apparently he was, kept Steve weighed down, secure.

He ran a nail lightly over Billy’s forearm, felt him shiver. “I’m sleepin’ here,” Billy murmured, but he wasn’t awake, not really.

“You’re a gorilla.”

Billy huffed, said, “Shorter than you.”

A laugh caught Steve off guard, made him bite his lip. It was surreal. Unimaginable. He didn’t sleep until the early morning hours, but he was warm, at peace.

 

“You changed your nails,” Billy said, lacing their fingers together and holding their hands up to take a look. It was probably nine or ten in the morning, Steve hadn’t bothered to look, and Billy was still pressed up to him, wide awake like he always was first thing in the morning, but still, calm.

“Yeah, a few days ago. Carol said I had to, something about her reputation.”

“She actually make you pay for it?”

“She did, all thirty fucking dollars.”

“Thirty? Holy shit.”

“I know.”

“That’s a lot to only have them a few more days. Why the hell would you do that?”

Steve shifted a little, bit his lip. Was Billy prone to morning wood? Steve thought the idea should surprise him, stall him for maybe a minute, but. “I don’t know. I was thinking I’d keep them an extra two weeks, just to kind of, I don’t know. Make it worth my money? I’m kind of used to them now. Even if I have to get Tommy to open literally every beer can for me.”

“Really?” Billy asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “I mean, might as well?” He shifted again, grinned when Billy’s breath caught, dick against Steve’s ass. “You got a problem with that?”

“No, uh.” Billy cleared his throat. “You do what you want.”

Steve reached under the covers, dragged his nails over the part of Billy’s thigh he could reach. “Told Carol, anyway, that it was good for my sex life.”

“I’m sorry, what did you do with Steve Harrington? Are you hitting on me?” Billy asked, but his own hand was slipping into the sheets, slipped right into Steve’s sweat pants to jerk him slowly.

Even if he’d wanted to, Steve couldn’t stop his moan or the little kick of his hips. He dug his fingers into Billy’s thigh, didn’t mind when Billy started to rock against him. “Thought I had you pegged for a straight boy.”

“But you wanted me.”

“I hoped I was wrong. For a little, I kind of hoped you’d fuck me anyway.”

Steve gasped, soft, said, “I want you to fuck me.” The words were garbled, too-fast. He’d shocked himself a little, but he’d been thinking about it, couldn’t stop wondering since he’d gotten off on the idea of Billy fucking his thighs, came on Billy’s fingers.

“Christ,” Billy said, hand stalling as he rubbed Steve’s tip. “Right now?”

“Sure, yeah, why not.”

“Thought you’d wanna be like, more romantic, and shit.”

“How much time have you spent assuming what I’d want?”

Billy kissed the side of Steve’s neck, sucked the skin. “Love jerking off to you.”

Maybe it was because Steve had never been with a guy, but there was something hotter to the way Billy touched him than any of the women since Nancy. “Shit,” he said, grinding back against Billy. “Can you get the fucking lube already?”

When Billy laughed, it rumbled through Steve’s back, added to the pleased ache in Steve’s groan as Billy kept running his and over him. “Is that an order?”

Steve dug his nails in. “ _Yes_.”

That got Billy moving. He pulled back to rifle through the drawer as Steve pushed off the covers and shucked his pants. He didn’t know what to do, exactly, only had a rough idea from watching porn, but he figured it couldn’t be that different, right? He’d had a lot of sex.

As Billy pulled his pants off, Steve lay on his back and watched him from the bed, slowly running his nails up and down his abdomen, a tease. Last time, Steve hadn’t really been able to see anything, but in the bright morning, Billy was strong and tanned, thighs sculpted in a way that Steve had seen but never truly appreciated. Seeing his dick there and hard, for Steve, was sort of alien, but it made Steve’s heart jog into his throat, made him struggle to keep his hands from sinking to his dick.

Billy’s eyes were stuck on Steve’s hands, mouth open a little as he fisted his cock.

“Are you going to get in me, or what?”

“Jesus, have patience,” Billy said. “There’s no foreplay with you.”

“If you want to fuck me—”

The lube bounced on the bed as Billy got between his legs, kissed him sound. Steve tangled his hands in Billy’s hair and scratched at his scalp, loved the way he moaned.

“You’re so lazy. What if I wanted a hand job?”

“Sorry,” Steve said, but he didn’t sound it, wasn’t trying to. “Do you want a hand job?”

“You’re such a fucking princess.”

Steve tugged on Billy’s earring, but it only made him laugh. He kissed down Steve’s sternum to his navel, licked it with a grin.

Which, “That’s fucking gross, oh my god.”

“See? Princess,” Billy said. Before Steve could fight against it, Billy was taking him in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip, making him choke. It wasn’t what he wanted, but Billy clearly knew what to do with his tongue, with his hands. He pushed a finger inside Steve and held down his hips when they stuttered.

By the time Billy was finally putting on a condom, Steve was already panting, blotchy and hot from his cheeks to his belly. “So like,” Steve said, “Probably a stupid question, but is this going to hurt?”

“Probably, a bit,” Billy said. He lined himself up, slowly pushed in, said, “You get used to it.”

Steve’s breath hitched. He jerked himself for something to do with his hands, needed to ease his mind around the foreign stretch. Billy shooed him away and started to rock his hips, pumping Steve in time, and it was unfair, but. It wasn’t hard to figure out what Billy wanted, what got him hot and hard.

Slowly, he dragged his fingers down Billy’s back, gave enough pressure to scratch, loved Billy’s low moan. He scraped his nails over every bit of skin he could reach, Billy’s neck, his chest, his ass. Writhed in a way he wasn’t expecting when Billy sunk in deep, hit the spot Steve had been promised would make it all worth it. It was definitely worth _something_.

When he came, it was with a different kind of shake than he was used to, strung out and overwhelmed. Billy kept moving for a while after, panted into his neck and kissed his lips as Steve dug his fingers into his hips. It was too much, but he wanted to see Billy come, couldn’t bring himself to ask him to stop.

“Billy,” he whined. He’d intended it to be firmer, but it seemed to do it, had Billy spilling between his thighs, falling heavy over his body.

“Christ.”

“Dude,” Steve said.

Billy laughed, said, “Dude, really?” And laughed harder when Steve smacked his arm.

 

“So,” Tommy said, drawled it out like he thought he was being real smooth. “Still got those nails, huh? You got an appointment with Carol to get them off yet?”

Steve shrugged and put the coffee pot back in the coffee maker, said, “Yeah, probably some time next week. I don’t know, though, they’ve kind of grown on me?”

“Shit, really?”

“Yeah. Like, not that I’m into them now, but. Bitches seem to love ‘em.”

“Bitches, huh?” Tommy teased. “I haven’t seen you bringing girls around.”

“You’ve also been at Carol’s a lot.” Steve sipped his coffee. “Oh, Billy’s probably moving in?”

“What?” Tommy sat up straighter where he sat at the kitchen table, toast crumbs and jam sticking to the corner of his mouth. “Where? We don’t have a third room. It would be nice to split the rent, though.”

“Okay, so he wouldn’t actually be paying to be here, but he’ll pitch in for groceries—”

“What? Why are you so calm about this?”

Slowly, Steve set his coffee cup on the table, eyebrows scrunched. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You fucking hate that he already sleeps on our couch. He can’t actually want to sleep on our couch, like, full time.”

“He wouldn’t be?”

“What, he’s upgrading to sleeping on the floor?”

Maybe Tommy had seemed like a particularly slow child, but he was definitely a smart adult. Steve counted his patience. “Why would he sleep on the floor when he’s been sleeping in my bed?”

“He’s been doing _what_?”

“Seriously, Tommy?”

“What?”

“We’ve been fucking for weeks.”

Tommy nearly spilled his coffee. “ _What_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! I tricked myself into believing it would be five chapters. I originally tricked myself into thinking it would only be two. I'm hilarious.  
> Huge love for everyone reading, and extra special love for uncaringerinn for always holding my hand.  
> Please feel free to hit me up @eternalgoldfish on tumblr. I love friends and long walks on the beach.  
> As always, if you've got feedback, comments are always appreciated!  
> I hope you're all enjoying your summer and don't stress too much before season 3 drops in a few days.  
> Have a good week!


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